At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)

  CHAPTER XIII.

  None of the persons chiefly concerned in this history, except himself,knew as yet whether Reginald Burton was good or bad. But one thing iscertain, that there were good intentions in his mind when he startled DrMaurice with this extraordinary tale. He had a very busy morning,driving from place to place in his hansom, giving up so many hours ofhis day without much complaint. He had expected Maurice to know what thepapers would have told him, had he been less overwhelmed with the eventitself of which they gave so strange a version, and he had intended tohave a friendly consultation with him about Mrs Drummond's means ofliving, and what was to be done for her. Something must be done for her,there was no doubt about that. She could not be allowed to starve. Shewas his own cousin, once Helen Burton; and, no doubt, by this time shehad found out her great mistake. It must not be supposed that thisthought brought with it any lingering fondness of recollection, anytouch of the old love with which he himself had once looked upon her. Itwould have been highly improper had it done anything of the kind. He hada Mrs Burton of his own, who of course possessed his entire affections,and he was not a man to indulge in any illegitimate emotion. But stillhe had been thinking much of Helen since this bewildering eventoccurred. It was an event which had taken him quite by surprise. He didnot understand it. He felt that he himself could never be in suchdespair, could never take 'a step so rash'--the only step a man couldtake which left no room for repentance. It had been providential, nodoubt, for some things. But Helen had been in his mind since ever he hadtime to think. There was a little glitter in his eye, a littlecomplacent curl about the corners of his mouth, as he thought of her,and her destitute condition, and her helplessness. What a mistake shehad made! She had chosen a wretched painter, without a penny, instead ofhimself. And this was what it had come to. Now at least she must havefound out what a fool she had been. But yet he intended to be good toher in his way. He vowed to himself, with perhaps some secretcompunction in the depths of his heart, that if she would let him hewould be very good to her. Nor was Helen the only person to whom heintended to be good. He went to the Haldanes as well, with kindestsympathy and offers of help. 'Perhaps you may think I was to blame inrecommending such an investment of your money?' he said to Stephen, withthat blunt honesty which charms so many people. 'But my first thoughtwas of you when I heard of the crash. I wish I had bitten my tongue outsooner than recommended it. The first people who came into my head weremy cousin Helen and you.'

  Dismay and trouble were in the Haldanes' little house. They had notrecovered from the shock. They were like three ghosts--each endeavouringto hide the blackness from each other which had fallen upon theirsouls.--Miss Jane and her mother, however, had begun to get a littlerelief in talking over the great misery which had fallen upon them. Theyhad filled the room with newspapers, in which they devoured every scrapof news which bore on that one subject. They sat apart in a corner andread them to each other, while Stephen closed his poor sad eyes andwithdrew into himself. It was the only retirement he had, his only wayof escape from the monotonous details of their family life, and theconstant presence of his nurses and attendants. This man had suchattendants--unwearying, uncomplaining, always ready whatever he wanted,giving up their lives to his service--as few men have; and yet therewere moments when he would have given the world to be free of them,--nowand then, for half an hour, to be able to be alone. He had been sittingthus in his oratory, his place of retirement having shut his doors, andgone into his chamber by that single action of closing his eyes, when MrBurton came in. The women had been reading those papers to him till hehad called to them to stop. They had made his heart sore, as our heartsare being made sore now by tales of wrong and misery which we cannothelp, cannot stop, can do nothing but weep for, or listen to with heartsthat burn and bleed. Stephen Haldane's heart was so--it was sore,quivering with the stroke it had sustained, feeling as if it would burstout of his breast. People say that much invoked and described organ isgood only for tough physical uses, and knows no sentiment; but surelysuch people have never had _a sore heart_.

  Poor Stephen's heart was sore: he could feel the great wound in itthrough which the life-blood stole. Yesterday he had been stupefied.To-day he had begun to wonder why, if a sacrifice was needed, it shouldnot have been him? He who was good for nothing, a burden on the earth;and not Robert, the kindest, truest----God bless him! yes, God bless himdown yonder at the bottom of the river, down with Dives in a deeperdepth if that might be--anywhere, everywhere, even in hell or purgatory,God bless him! this was what his friend said, not afraid. And the womenin the corner, in the mean while, read all the details, every one--aboutthe dragging of the river, about the missing books, about Mr Golden, whohad been so wronged. Mrs Haldane believed it every word, having a dreadof human nature and a great confidence in the newspapers; but Miss Janewas tormented with an independent opinion, and hesitated and could notbelieve. It had almost distracted their attention from the fact whichthere could be no question about, which all knew for certain--their ownruin. Rivers's had stopped payment, whoever was in fault, and everythingthis family had--their capital, their income, everything was gone. Ithad stunned them all the first day, but now they were beginning to calltogether their forces and live again; and when Mr Burton made thelittle sympathetic speech above recorded it went to their hearts.

  'I am sure it is very kind, very kind of you to say so,' said MrsHaldane. 'We never thought of blaming--you.'

  'I don't go so far as that,' said Miss Jane. 'I always speak my mind. Iblame everybody, mother; one for one thing, one for another. There isnobody that has taken thought for Stephen, not one. Stephen ought tohave been considered, and that he was not able to move about and see tothings for himself like other men.'

  'It is very true, it is very true!' said Mr Burton, sighing. He shookhis head, and he made a little movement of his hand, as if deprecatingblame. He held up his hat with the mourning band upon it, and looked asif he might have wept. 'When you consider all that has happened,' hesaid in a low tone of apology. 'Some who have been in fault have paidfor it dearly, at least----'

  It was Stephen's voice which broke in upon this apology, in a tone asdifferent as could be imagined--high-pitched, almost harsh. When he wasthe popular minister of Ormond Street Chapel it was one of the standingremarks made by his people to strangers, 'Has not he a beautifulvoice?' But at this moment all the tunefulness and softness had gone outof it. 'Mr Burton,' he said, 'what do you mean to do to vindicateDrummond? It seems to me that _that_ comes first.'

  'To vindicate Drummond!' Mr Burton looked up with a sudden start, andthen he added hurriedly, with an impetuosity which secured the two womento his side, 'Haldane, you are too good for this world. Don't let usspeak of Drummond. I will forgive him--if I can.'

  'How much have you to forgive him?' said the preacher. Once more, howmuch? By this time Mr Burton felt that he had a right to be angry withthe question.

  'How much?' he said; 'really I don't feel it necessary to go into my ownbusiness affairs with everybody who has a curiosity to know. I amwilling to allow that my losses are as nothing to yours. Pray don't letus go into this question, for I don't want to lose my temper. I came tooffer any assistance that was in my power--to you.'

  'Oh, Mr Burton, Stephen is infatuated about that miserable man,' saidthe mother; 'he cannot see harm in him; and even now, when he has takenhis own life and proved himself to be----'

  'Stephen has a right to stand up for his friend,' said Miss Jane. 'If Ihad time I would stand up for him too; but Stephen's comfort has to bethought of first. Mr Burton, the best assistance you could give us wouldbe to get me something to do. I can't be a governess, and needleworkdoes not pay; neither does teaching, for that matter, even if I could doit. I am a good housekeeper, though I say it. I can keep accounts withanybody. I am not a bad cook even. And I'm past forty, and never waspretty in my life, so that I don't see it matters whether I am a womanor a man. I don't care what I do or where I go, so long as I can earnsome money. Can you help me to
that? Don't groan, Stephen; do you thinkI mind it? and don't you smile, Mr Burton. I am in earnest for my part.'

  Stephen had groaned in his helplessness. Mr Burton smiled in hissuperiority, in his amused politeness of contempt for the plain womanpast forty. 'We can't let you say that,' he answered jocosely, with alook at her which reminded Miss Jane that she was a woman after all, andfilled her with suppressed fury. But what did such covert insult matter?It did not harm her; and the man who sneered at her homeliness mighthelp her to work for her brother, which was the actual matter in hand.

  'It is very difficult to know of such situations for ladies,' said MrBurton. 'If anything should turn up, of course--but I fear it would notdo to depend upon that.'

  'Stephen has his pension from the chapel,' said Miss Jane. She was notdelicate about these items, but stated her case loudly and plainly,without even considering what Stephen's feelings might be. 'It was tolast for five years, and nearly three of them are gone; and he has fiftypounds a year for the Magazine--that is not much Mr Burton, for all thetrouble; they might increase that. And mother and I are trying to letthe house furnished, which would always be something. We could removeinto lodgings, and if nothing more is to be got, of course we must doupon what we have.'

  Here Mr Burton cast a look upon the invalid who was surrounded by somany contrivances of comfort. It was a compassionate glance, but itstung poor Stephen. 'Don't think of me,' he said hoarsely; 'my wants,though I look such a burden upon everybody, are not many after all.Don't think of me.'

  'We could do with what we have,' Miss Jane went on--she was sopractical, she rode over her brother's susceptibilities and ignoredthem, which perhaps was the best thing that could have been done--'ifyou could help us with a tenant for our house, Mr Burton, or get theMagazine committee to give him a little more than fifty pounds. The workit is! what with writing--and I am sure he writes half of ithimself--and reading those odious manuscripts which ruin his eyes, andcorrecting proofs, and all that. It is a shame that he has only fiftypounds----'

  'But he need not take so much trouble unless he likes, Jane,' said MrsHaldane, shaking her head. 'I liked it as it was.'

  'Never mind, mother; Stephen knows best, and it is him that we have gotto consider. Now, Mr Burton, here is what you can do for us--I shouldnot have asked anything, but since you have offered, I suppose you meanit--something for me to do, or some one to take the house, or a littlemore money for the Magazine. Then we could do. I don't like anythingthat is vague. I suppose you prefer that I should tell you plain?'

  'To be sure,' said Mr Burton; and he smiled, looking at her with thatmixture of contemptuous amusement and dislike with which a plainmiddle-aged woman so often inspires a vulgar-minded man. That the womenwho want to work are always old hags, was one of the articles of hiscreed; and here was an illustration. Miss Jane troubled herself verylittle about his amusement or his contempt. She did not much believe inhis good-will. But if he did mean it, why, it was best to take advantageof his offer. This was her practical view of the subject. Mr Burtonturned from her to Stephen, who had taken no part in the talk. Necessityhad taught to the sick man its stern philosophy. He had to listen tosuch discussions twenty times in a day, and he had steeled his heart tohear them, and make no sign.

  'What would you say to life in the country?' he said. 'The little help Icame to offer in these sad circumstances is not in any of the ways MissJane suggests. I don't know anybody that wants to take just this kind ofhouse:' and he glanced round at it with a smile. He to know a possibletenant for such a nutshell! 'And I don't know any situation that wouldsuit your sister, though I am sure she would be invaluable. Myfather-in-law is the man to speak about the Magazine business. Possiblyhe could manage that. But what I would offer you if you like, would be alodging in the country. I have a house down at Dura, which is of no useto me. There is good air and a garden, and all that. You are as welcomeas possible if you like to come.'

  'A house in the country,' said Mrs Haldane. 'Oh, my boy! Oh, Mr Burton!he might get well there.'

  Poor soul! it was her delusion that Stephen was to get well. She took upthis new hope with eyes which, old as they were, flashed out withbrightness and consolation. 'What will all our losses matter if Stephengets well?' she went on, beginning to cry. And Miss Jane rose up hastilyand went away with a tremulous harshness, shutting her lips up tight, tothe other side of the room, to get her work, which she had beenneglecting. Miss Jane was like a man in this, that she could not beartears. She set her face against them, holding herself in, lest she toomight have been tempted to join. Of all the subjects of discussion inthis world, Stephen's recovery was the only one she could not bear; forshe loved her brother like a poet, like a starved and frozen woman whohas had but one love in her life.

  The old mother was more manageable to Mr Burton's mind than Miss Jane.Her tears and gratitude restored him to what he felt was his properplace,--that of a benefactor and guardian angel. He sat for half an hourlonger, and told Mrs Haldane all about the favour he was willing toconfer. 'It is close to the gates of my own house, but you must notthink that will be an annoyance to us,' he said. 'On the contrary, Idon't mean to tell my father-in-law till he sees you there. It will be apleasant surprise for him. He has always taken so much interest inHaldane. Don't say anything, I beg. I am very glad you should have it,and I hope it will make you feel this dreadful calamity less. Ah yes; itis wretched for us; but what must it be for my poor cousin? I am goingto see her now.'

  'I don't know her,' said Mrs Haldane. 'She has called at the door to askfor Stephen, very regular. That I suppose was because of the friendshipbetween----but I have only seen her once or twice on a formal call. Ifall is true that I hear, she will take it hard, being a proud woman. Oh!pride's sinful at the best of times; but in a time like this----'

  'Mother!'

  'Yes, Stephen, I know; and I am sure I would not for the world say aword against friends of yours; but----'

  'I must go now,' said Mr Burton, rising. 'Good-bye, Haldane. I willwrite to you about the house, and when you can come in. On secondthoughts, I will not prevent you from mentioning it to Mr Baldwin, ifyou please. He is sure to ask what you are going to do, and he will beglad to know.'

  He went out from Victoria Villas pleased with himself. He had been verygood to these people, who really were nothing to him. He was not even aDissenter, but a staunch Churchman, and had no sympathy for the sickminister. What was his motive, then? But it was his wife who made it herbusiness to investigate his motives, and we may wait for the result ofher examination. All this was easy enough. The kindness he had offeredwas one which would cost him little, and he had not suffered in thisinterview as he had done in that which preceded it. But now he hadoccasion for all his strength; now came the tug of war, the real strain.He was going to see Helen. She had been but three days a widow, and nodoubt would be in the depth of that darkness which is the recognizedaccompaniment of grief. Would she see him? Could she have seen thepapers, or heard any echo of their news? On this point he was nervous.Before he went to St Mary's Road, though it was close at hand, he wentto the nearest hotel, and had a glass of wine and a biscuit. For such avisit he required all his strength.

  But these precautions were unnecessary. The shutters were all closed inSt Mary's Road. The lilacs were waving their plumy fragrant branchesover a door which no one entered. Mrs Drummond was at home, but saw noone. Even when the maid carried his message to her, the answer was thatshe could see no one, that she was quite well, and required nothing.'Not even the clergyman, sir,' said the maid. 'He's been, but she wouldnot see him. She is as white as my apron, and her poor hands you couldsee the light through 'em. We all think as she'll die too.'

  'Does she read the papers?' said Mr Burton anxiously. He was relievedwhen the woman said 'No.' He gave her half-a-crown, and bade her admitnone to the house till he came again. Rebecca promised and curtsied, andwent back to the kitchen to finish reading that article in the _DailySemaphore_. The fact that it was 'master' who was there call
ed 'thisunfortunate man' and 'this unhappy wretch,' gave the strongest zest toit. 'La! to think he could have had all that on his mind,' they said toeach other. George was the only one who considered it might be 'amade-up story,' and he was believed to say so more from 'contrariness,'and a desire to set up for superior wisdom, than because he had any realdoubt on the subject. 'A person may _say_ a thing, but I never heard ofone yet as would go for to put it in print, if it wasn't true,' wasRebecca's comment. 'I'm sorry for poor master, all the same,' said Janethe housemaid, who was tender-hearted, and who had put on an old blackgown of her own accord. The servants were not to get mourning, which wassomething unheard of; and they had all received notice, and, as soon asMrs Drummond was able to move, were to go away.

  For that matter, Helen was able to move then--able to go to the end ofthe earth, as she felt with a certain horror of herself. It is sonatural to suppose that physical weakness should come in the train ofgrief; but often it does not, and the elastic delicate strength ofHelen's frame resisted all the influences of her sorrow. She scarcelyate at all; she slept little; the world had grown to her one great seaof darkness and pain and desolation: and yet she could not lie down anddie as she had thought she would, but felt such a current of feverishenergy in all her veins as she had never felt before. She could havedone anything--laboured, travelled, worked with her hands, fought even,not like a man, but like twenty men. She was conscious of this, and itgrieved and horrified her. She felt as a woman brought up inconventional proprieties would naturally feel, that her health ought tohave been affected, that her strength should have failed her. But it hadnot done so. Her grief inflamed her rather, and set her heart on fire.Even now, in these early days, when custom decreed that she ought to beincapable of exertion, 'keeping her bed,' she felt herself in possessionof a very flood of energy and excited strength. She was miserable, butshe was not weak. She shut herself up in the darkened house all day, buthalf the night would walk about in her garden, in her despair, trying totame down the wild life which had come with calamity. Poor little Norahcrept about everywhere after her, and lay watching with great wide-openeyes, through the silvery half-darkness of the summer night, till sheshould come to bed. But Norah was not old enough to understand hermother, and was herself half frightened by this extraordinary change inher, which affected the child's imagination more than the simpledisappearance of her father did, though she wept and longed for him witha dreary sense that unless he came back life never could be as of old,and that he would never, never come back. But all the day long MrsDrummond sat in her darkened room, and 'was not able to see any one.'She endured the vigil, and would have done so, if she had died of it.That was what was called 'proper respect:' it was called theconventional necessity of the moment. Mr Burton called again and again,but it was more than a fortnight before he was admitted. And in the meantime he too had certain preparations to go through.