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AT HIS GATES.
A Novel.
BY MRS OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF 'CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,' ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1872.
[_All rights reserved_]
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
AT HIS GATES.
CHAPTER I.
Helen had still another incident before her, however, ere she left StMary's Road. It was late in the afternoon when she went back. To go backat all, to enter the dismantled place, and have that new dreary picturethrust into her mind instead of the old image of home, was painfulenough, and Norah's cheeks were pale, and even to Helen the air and themovement conveyed a certain relief. They went into the quieter part ofthe park and walked for an hour or two saying little. Now and then poorNorah would be beguiled into a little monologue, to which her motherlent a half attention--but that was all. It was easier to be in motionthan to keep still, and it was less miserable to look at the trees, theturf, the blue sky, than at the walls of a room which was full ofassociations of happiness. They did not get home until the carriageswere beginning to roll into the park for the final round before dinner.And when they reached their own house, there stood a smart cabrioletbefore it, the horse held by a little tiger. Within the gate twogentlemen met them coming down the steps. One of them was a youth ofeighteen or nineteen, who looked at Helen with a wondering awe-strickenglance. The other was--Mr Golden. Norah had closed the garden doorheedlessly after her. They were thus shut in, the four togetherconfronting each other, unable to escape. Helen could not believe hereyes. Her heart began to beat, her pale cheeks to flush, a kind of mistof excitement came before her vision. Mr Golden, too, was not without acertain perturbation. He had not expected to see any one. He took offhis hat, and cleared his voice, and made an effort to seem at his ease.
'I had just called,' he said, 'to express--to inquire--I did not knowthings had been so far advanced. I would not intrude--for the world.'
'Oh!' cried Helen, facing him, standing between him and the door, 'howdare you come here?'
'Dare, Mrs Drummond? I--I don't understand----'
'You do understand,' she said, 'better--far better than any one elsedoes. And how dare you come to look at your handiwork? A man may be whatyou are, and yet have a little shame. Oh, you robber of the dead! if Ihad been anything but a woman, you would not have ventured to look me inthe face.'
He did not venture to look her in the face then; he looked at hiscompanion instead, opening his eyes, and nodding his head slightly, asif to imply that she was crazed. 'It is only a woman who can insult aman with impunity,' he said, 'but I hope I am able to make allowance foryour excited feelings. It is natural for a lady to blame some one, Isuppose. Rivers, let us go.'
'Not till I have spoken,' she cried in her excitement. 'This is but aboy, and he ought to know whom he is with. Oh, how is it that I cannotstrike you down and trample upon you? If I were to call that policemanhe would not take you, I suppose. You liar and thief! don't dare toanswer me. What, at my own door; at the door of the man whose good nameyou have stolen, whom you have slandered in his grave--oh my God! whohas not even a grave because you drove him mad!--' she cried, her eyesblazing, her cheeks glowing, all the silent beauty of her face growingsplendid in her passion.
The young man gazed at her as at an apparition, his lips falling apart,his face paling. He had never heard such a voice, never seen such anoutburst of outraged human feeling before.
'Mrs Drummond, this is madness. I--I can make allowance for--forexcitement----'
'Be silent, sir,' cried Helen, in her fury. 'Who do you suppose careswhat you think? And how dare you open your mouth before me? It is I whohave a right to speak. And I wish there were a hundred to hear insteadof one. This man had absconded till he heard my husband was dead. Thenhe came back and assumed innocence, and laid the blame on him who--couldnot reply. I don't know who you are; but you are young, and you shouldhave a heart. There is not a liar in England--not a thing so vile asthis man. He has plundered the dead of his good name. Now go, sir. Ihave said what I had to say.'
'Mrs Drummond, sometime you will have to answer--sometime you willrepent of this,' cried Golden, losing his presence of mind.
'I shall never repent it, not if you could kill me for it,' cried Helen.'Go; you make the place you stand on vile. Take him away from my sight.I have said what I had to say.'
Mr Golden made an effort to recover himself. He struck his youngcompanion on the shoulder with an attempt at jocularity.
'Come, Rivers,' he said, 'come along, we are dismissed. Don't you see weare no longer wanted here?'
But the lad did not answer the appeal. He stayed behind with his eyesstill fixed upon Helen.
'Please, don't blame me,' he said. 'Tell me if I can do anything. I--didnot know----'
'Thank you,' she said faintly. Her excitement had failed her all atonce. She had put her arms round Norah, and was leaning upon her,haggard and pale as if she were dying. 'Thank you,' she repeated, with amotion of her hand towards the door.
The youth stole out with a sore heart. He stood for a moment irresoluteon the pavement. The cab was his and not Golden's; but that personagehad got into it, and was calling to him to follow.
'Thanks,' said young Rivers, with the impetuosity of his years. 'Ishall not trouble you. Go on pray. I prefer to walk.'
And he turned upon his heel, and went rapidly away. He was gone beforethe other could realise it; and it was with feelings that it would beimpossible to describe, with a consciousness that seemed both bodily andmental of having been beaten and wounded all over, with a singing in hisears, and a bewildered sense of punishment, that Golden picked up thereins and drove away. It was only a few sharp words from a woman'stongue, a thing which a man must steel himself to bear when hisoperations are of a kind which involve the ruin of families. But Helenhad given her blow far more skilfully, far more effectively, than shewas aware of. She had clutched at her first chance of striking, withoutany calculation of results; and the youth she had appealed to in herexcitement might have been any nameless lad for what she knew. It was MrGolden's hard fate that he was not a nameless lad. He was Cyril Rivers,Lord Rivers's eldest son. The manager drove on a little way, slowly, andin great perturbation. And then he drew up the horse, and sprang to theground.
'You had better go home,' he said to the little groom.
And then, still with that sense of bodily suffering as well as mental,he made his way through Kensington Gardens to the drive. He was a man offashion, too, as well as a man of business--if he ever could hold up hishead again.
Of course he did hold up his head, and in an hour after was ready tohave made very good fun of the 'scolding' he had received, and theimpression it had made on his young companion.
'I don't wonder,' he said; 'though her rage was all against me, I couldnot help admiring her. You never can tell what a woman is till you seeher in a passion. She was splendid. Her friends ought to advise her togo on the stage.'
'Why should she go on the stage?' said some one standing by.
'Because she is left a beggar. She has not a penny, I suppose.'
'It is lucky that you have suffered so little when so many people arebeggared, Golden,' said one of his fine friends.
This little winged shaft went rig
ht into the wound made by Helen's fierylance, and so far as sensation went (which was nothing) Mr Golden hadnot a happy time that night.
As for Helen, she went in, prostrated by her own vehemence, and threwherself down on her bed, and hid her face from the light. After thefirst excitement was over shame seized upon her. She had descended fromher proper place. She had flown into this outburst of passion and ragebefore her child. She had lowered herself in Norah's eyes, as shethought--though the child would not take her arm from her neck, nor herlips from her cheek, but clung to her sobbing, 'Oh, poor mamma! poormamma!' with sympathetic passion. All this fiery storm through which shehad passed had developed Norah. She had gained three or four years in aday. At one bound, from the child who was a piece of still life in thefamily, deeply beloved, but not needed, by the two who were each other'scompanions, she had become, all at once, her mother's only stay, herpartizan, her supporter, her comrade-in-arms. It is impossible toover-estimate the difference this makes in a child's, and especially ina girl's, life. It made of her an independent, thinking, actingcreature, all in a moment. For years everything had been said beforeher, under the supposition that Norah, absorbed in her book, heardnothing. But she had heard a thousand things. She knew all now withoutany need of explanation, as well as so young a mind could understand.And she began to grope in her mind towards further knowledge, to putthings together which even her mother had not thought of.
'Do you know who the boy was, mamma?' she whispered, after she had sat along time on the bed, silently consoling the sufferer. 'Oh, I am so gladyou spoke, he will never forget it. Now one more knows it besides youand me.'
'There are others who know, dear,' said Helen, who had still poorStephen's magazine in her hand.
'Yes,' said Norah, 'Dr Maurice and the people who wrote to the papers;but, mamma, nobody like you and me. Whatever they say we know. I amlittle, and I suppose I shall always be little; but that does notmatter. I shall soon be grown up, and able to help. And, mamma, thisshall be my work as well as yours--I shall never stop till it isdone--never, all my life!'
'Oh, my darling!' cried Helen, clasping her child in her arms. It wasnot that she received the vow as the child meant it, or even desiredthat in Norah's opening life there should be nothing of more importancethan this early self-devotion; but the sympathy was sweet to her beyonddescribing, the more that the little creature, who had played andchattered by her side, had suddenly become her friend. In the midst ofher sorrow and pain, and even of the prostration and sensitive visionaryshame with which this encounter had filled her, she had one sudden throbof pleasure. She was not alone any more.
It was Helen who fell asleep that evening worn out with emotion, andweariness, and suffering. And then Norah rose up softly, and made apilgrimage by herself all over the deserted house. She went through theconservatory, where, of all the beautiful things poor Robert had lovedto see, there remained nothing but the moonlight which filled itsemptiness; and into the studio, where she sat down on the floor besidethe easel, and clasped her arms round it and cried. She was beginning toweary of the atmosphere of grief, beginning to long for life andsunshine, but yet she clung to the easel and indulged in one childishpassion of sobs and tears. 'Oh, papa!' That was all Norah said toherself. But the recollection of all he had been, and of all that hadbeen done to him, surged over the child, and filled her with that senseof the intolerable which afflicts the weak. She could not bear it, yetshe had to bear it; just as her mother, just as poor Haldane had tobear--struggling vainly against a power greater than theirs,acquiescing when life and strength ran low, sometimes for a momentdivinely consenting, accepting the will of God. But it is seldom thateven the experienced soul gets so far as that.
Next morning Mrs Drummond and her daughter went to Dura. Their arrivalat the station was very different from that of Mr Burton. No eagerporters rushed at them as they stepped out of the railway carriage; thestation-master moved to the other side; they landed, and were left onthe platform by themselves to count their boxes while the train swepton. It was the first time it had ever happened so to Helen. Her husbandhad always either been with her, or waiting for her, wherever shetravelled. And she was weary with yesterday's agitation, and with allthat had so lately happened. Norah came forward and took everything inhand. It was she who spoke to the porter, and set the procession inorder.
'Cab? Bless you, miss! there ain't but one in the place, and it's goneon a 'xcursion,' he said, 'but I'll get a wheelbarrow and take 'em down.It ain't more than ten minutes' walk.'
'I know the way,' said Helen; and she took her child's hand and walkedon into the familiar place. She had not been there since her marriage;but oh! how well she knew it! She put her crape veil over her face tohide her from curious eyes; and it threw a black mist at the same timeover the cheerful village. It seemed to Helen as if she was walking in adream. She knew everything, every stone on the road, the names above theshops, the forms of the trees. There was one great elm, lopsided, whichhad lost a huge branch (how well she remembered!) by a thunderstorm whenshe was a child; was it all a dream? Everything looked like a dreamexcept Norah; but Norah was real. As for the child, there was in herheart a lively thrill of pleasure at sight of all this novelty which shecould not quite subdue. She had no veil of crape over her eyes, and thered houses all lichened over, the glimpses of fields and trees, therural aspect of the road, the vision of the common in the distance, allfilled her with a suppressed delight. It was wrong, Norah knew; shecalled herself back now and then and sighed, and asked herself how shecould be so devoid of feeling; but yet the reaction would come. Shebegan to talk in spite of herself.
'I think some one might have come to meet us at the station,' she said.'Ned might have come. He is a boy, and can go anywhere. I am sure,mamma, _we_ would have gone to make them feel a little at home. Whereis the Gatehouse? What is that place over there? Why there are shops--adraper's and a confectioner's--and a library! I am very glad there is alibrary. Mamma, I think I shall like it; is that the common far awayyonder? Do you remember any of the people? I should like to know somegirls if you will let me. There is little Clara, of course, who is mycousin. Do you think we shall live here always, mamma?'
Norah did not ask nor, indeed, look for any answer to this string ofquestions. She made a momentary pause of courtesy to leave room for areply, should any come; but Helen's thoughts were full of the past, andas she made no answer Norah resumed the strain.
'It looks very cheerful here, mamma; though it is a village, it does notlook dull. I like the red tiles on the cottages and all this red-brick;perhaps it is a little hot-looking now, but in winter it will be socomfortable. Shall we be able to get our things here without going totown? That seems quite a good shop. I wonder what Mrs Burton and Clarado? But then they are so rich, and we are--poor. Shall I be able to haveany lessons, mamma? Can I go on with my music? I wonder if Clara has agoverness. She will think it very strange that you should teach me. ButI am very glad; I like you better than twenty governesses. Mamma, willit make any difference between Clara and me, them being so rich and usso poor?'
'Oh, Norah, I cannot tell you. Don't ask so many questions,' said Helen.
Norah was wounded; she did not give up her mother's hand, but she loosedher hold of it to show her feelings. She had been very sympathetic, veryquiet, and respectful of the grief which in its intensity was beyondher; and now she seemed to herself to have a right to a little sympathyin return. She could understand but dimly what was in her mother's mind;she did not know the associations of which Dura was full; and it washard to be thus stopped short in that spring of renovating life. As sheresigned herself to silence, a feeling of injury came over her; andhere, just before her eyes, suddenly appeared a picture of life sodifferent from hers. She saw a band of children gathered about the gateof a house, which stood at a short distance from the road, surrounded byshrubberies and distinguished by one great splendid cedar whichstretched its glorious branches over the high garden wall behind, andmade a point in the landscape. A lady
was driving a littlepony-carriage through the open gate, while the children stood watchingand waving their hands to her. 'Good-bye, mamma,' 'Don't be long,' 'Andmind you bring back Clara with you,' they were calling to her. With awistful sense of envy Norah gazed and wondered who they were, and if sheshould ever know them. 'Why are people so different?' she asked herself.She had nobody in the world but her mother, lost behind that crape veil,lost in her own thoughts, who told her not to ask questions, while thoseother little girls had a smiling mamma in a pretty pony-carriage, whowas taking one to drive with her, and was to bring Clara back to seethem. Which Clara? Was it the Clara who belonged to Norah, her owncousin, to whom she had a better right than any one? Norah's heart sankas she realized this. No doubt Clara must have many friends; she couldnot stand in need of Norah as Norah did of her. She would be a stranger,an interloper, a new little girl whom nobody knew, whom nobody perhapswould care to know. Tears came to the child's eyes. She had been a womanlast night rising to the height of the tragedy in which her little lifewas involved; but now Nature had regained its sway, and she was onlytwelve years old. It was while her mind was occupied with thesethoughts that her mother interrupted them, suddenly pressing her hand.
'Norah, this is our house, where we are to live,' said Helen. Her voicefaltered, she held the child's hand as if for support. And now they wereat their own door.
Norah gazed at it with a certain dismay. She, too, like Mr Haldane, hadher theory about a house in the country. It must be like Southlees, shethought, though without the river; or perhaps, as they had grown poor,it might be something a little better than the lodge at Southlees, alittle cottage; but she had never dreamed of anything like this tallred-brick house which twinkled at her with all its windows. She was awedand chilled, and a little frightened, as she crossed the road. Susan wasstanding at the open door parleying with the porter about their boxes,which she declined to admit till 'the family' came. The one fear whichpossessed Susan's life, the fear of being 'put upon,' was strong in herat this moment. But she set the balance straight for Norah, by making asudden curtsey, which tempted the child so sorely to laughter, that hereyes began to shine and her heart to rise once more. She ran up thewhite steps eagerly before her mother. 'Oh, mamma, I am first. I cansay welcome to you,' she said.
But the sight of the drawing-room, into which Susan ushered them,solemnly closing the door after them, struck a moment's chill to Norah'sheart. It seemed so strange to be thus shut in, as if it was not theirown house but a prison. It was afternoon, and the sunshine had all gonefrom that side of the road, and the graceful, old-fashioned room lookeddim and ghostly to eyes which had just come out of the light. Thewindows all draped with brown and grey, the old-fashioned slim grandpiano in the corner ('I shall have my music,' said Norah), the blackjapanned screen with its funny little pictures, the high carvedmantelpiece with that square mirror which nobody could see into, puzzledthe child, at once attracting and repelling her. There was anotherround, convex mirror like a shield, on the side wall, but even that didnot enable Norah to see herself, it only made a little twinkling pictureof her in a vast perspective of drawing-room. Helen had seated herselfas soon as the door was shut, and there was she, too, in the picturelike a lady come to call. What a strange, dim, ghostly place it was! Thebumping of the boxes as they went up-stairs was a comfort to Norah. Itwas a sound of life breaking the terrible silence. She asked herselfwhat would happen when it was over. Should they fall under some charmand sleep there, like the enchanted princess, for a hundred years? Andto think that all this was within reach of that lady in thepony-carriage, and of her children who waved their hands to her!--sonear, yet in a different world.
'Mayn't we go and see the house, mamma?' Norah whispered, standing closeto her mother's side. 'Shouldn't you like to see where we are to sleep?Shouldn't you like to get out of this room? It frightens me so; it feelslike a prison. Oh, mamma! perhaps it would not look so strange--andso--dull--and so--funny,' cried Norah, feeling disposed to cry, 'if youwould take your bonnet off.'
Just at this moment there was a sound in the road which stirred thewhole village into life, and roused Norah. She ran to the window to seewhat it was. It was an event which happened every evening, which all thechildren in Dura ran to see, though they were so familiar with it. Itwas Mr Burton driving his high-stepping bays home from the station. Hehad come by the express made on purpose for him and such as him, whicharrived half-an-hour later than the train by which the Drummonds hadcome. Norah climbed up on her knees on a chair to see over the littleold-fashioned blinds. There was some one seated by Mr Burton in thedog-cart, some one who looked at the Gatehouse, as Mr Burton did, whilethey dashed past. At the sight of him Norah started, and from a littlefantastical child became a woman all at once again. It was the young manwho the day before had been with Mr Golden at St Mary's Road, he who hadheard her father's vindication, and had believed it, and 'was on ourside,' Norah felt, against all the world.