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

  CHAPTER XV.

  Next morning the family at Dura paid a visit to the Gatehouse, to seeall its capabilities, and arrange the changes which might be necessary.It was a bright morning after the rain, and they walked together downthe dewy avenue, where the sunshine played through the network ofleaves, and the refreshed earth sent up sweet odours. All was pleasantto sight and sound, and made a lightsome beginning to the working day.Mr Burton was pleased with himself and everything surrounding him. Hischildren (he was very proud of his children) strolled along with theirfather and mother, and there was in Ned a precocious imitation of hisown walk and way of holding himself which at once amused and flatteredthe genial papa. He was pleased by his boy's appreciation of his owncharms of manner and appearance; and little Clara was like him,outwardly, at least, being of a larger mould than her mother. Hisinfluence was physically predominant in the family, and as forprofounder influences these were not much visible as yet. Mrs Burton hada _toilette fra?che_ of the costliest simplicity. Two or three dogsattended them on their walk--a handsome pointer and a wonderful hairySkye, and the tiniest of little Maltese terriers, with a blue ribbonround its neck such as Clara had, of whose colours her dog was arepetition. When she made a rush now and then along the road, herselflike a great white and blue butterfly, the dogs ran too, throwing uptheir noses in the air, till Ned, marching along in his knickerbockers,with his chest set out, and his head held up like his father's, whistledthe bigger ones to his masculine side. It was quite a pretty picturethis family procession; they were so well off, so perfectly suppliedwith everything that was pleasant and suitable, so happily above theworld and its necessities. There was a look of wealth about them thatmight almost have seemed insolent to a poor man. The spectator felt surethat if fricasseed bank-notes had been good to eat, they must have had alittle dish of that for breakfast. And the crown of all was that theywere going to do a good action--to give shelter and help to thehomeless. Many simple persons would have wept over the spectacle, hadthey known it, out of pure delight in so much goodness--if Mrs Burton,looking on with those clear cold blue eyes of hers, had not thrown uponthe matter something of a clearer light.

  The inspection was satisfactory enough, revealing space sufficient tohave accommodated twice as many people. And Mr Burton found it amusingtoo; for Susan, who was in charge, was very suspicious of their motives,and anxious to secure that she should not be put upon in any arrangementthat might be made. There was a large, quaint old drawing-room, withfive glimmering windows--three fronting to the road and two to thegarden--not French sashes, cut down to the ground, but old-fashionedEnglish windows with a sill to them, and a solid piece of wallunderneath. The chimney had a high wooden mantelpiece with a littlesquare of mirror let in, too high up for any purpose but that of givinga glimmer of reflection. The carpet, which was very much worn, waspartially covered by a tightly strained white cloth, as if the room hadbeen prepared for dancing. The furniture was very thin in the legs andangular in its proportions; some of the chairs were ebony, with bands offaded gilding and covers of minute old embroidery, into which wholelives had been worked. The curtains were of old-fashioned, big-patternedchintz--like that we call Cretonne now-a-days--with brown linings.Everything was very old and worn, but clean and carefully mended. Thelooker-on felt it possible that the entrance of a stranger might sobreak the spell that all might crumble into dust at a touch. But yetthere was a quaint, old-fashioned elegance--not old enough to beantique, but yet getting venerable--about the silent old house. MrBurton was of opinion that it would be better with new red curtains andsome plain, solid mahogany; but, if the things would do, considered thatit was unnecessary to incur further expense. When all the necessaryarrangements had been settled upon, the family party went on to therailway station. This was a very frequent custom with them. Mr Burtonliked to come home in state--to notify his arrival by means of thehigh-stepping greys and the commotion they made, to his subjects; but hewas quite willing to leave in the morning with graceful humility andthat exhibition of family affection which brings even the highestpotentates to a level with common men. When he arrived with his wife andhis children and his dogs at the station, it was touching to see thedevotion with which the station-master and the porters and everybodyabout received the great man. The train seemed to have been made onpurpose for him--to have come on purpose all the way out of the MidlandCounties; the railway people ran all along its length as soon as itarrived to find a vacant carriage for their demigod. 'Here you are,sir!' cried a smiling porter. 'Here you are, sir!' echoed thestation-master, rushing forward to open the door. The other porter, whowas compelled by duty to stand at the little gate of exit and take thetickets, looked gloomily upon the active service of his brethren, butidentified himself with their devotion by words at least, since nothingelse was left him. 'What d'ye mean by being late?' he cried to theguard. 'A train didn't ought to be late as takes gentlemen to town forbusiness. You're as slow, you are, as if you was the ladies' express.'

  Mr Burton laughed as he passed, and gladness stole into the porter'ssoul. Oh, magical power of wealth! when it laughs, the world grows glad.To go into the grimy world of business, and be rubbed against in thestreets by men who did him no homage, must be hard upon such a man,after the royal calm of the morning and all its pleasant circumstances.It was after just such another morning that he went again to St Mary'sRoad, and was admitted to see his cousin. She had shut herself up for afortnight obstinately. She would have done so for a year, in defiance ofherself and of nature, had it been possible, that all the world mightknow that Robert had 'the respect' due to him. She would not havedeprived him of one day, one fold of crape, one imbecility of grief, ofher own will. She would have been ill, if she could, to do him honour.All this was quite independent of that misery of which the world couldknow nothing, which was deep as the sea in her own heart. That must lastlet her do what she would. But she would fain have given to her husbandthe outside too. The fortnight, however, was all that poor Helen couldgive. Already stern need was coming in, and the creditors, to whomeverything she had belonged. When Mr Burton was admitted, the man hadbegun to make an inventory of the furniture. The pretty drawing-room wasalready dismantled, the plants all removed from the conservatory; thecanvases were stacked against the wall in poor Robert's studio, and apicture-dealer was there valuing them. They were of considerable valuenow--more than they would have been had it still been possible that theyshould be finished. People who were making collections of modernpictures would buy them readily as the only 'Drummond' now to be had. MrBurton went and looked at the pictures, and pointed out one that hewould like to buy. His feelings were not very delicate, but yet itstruck a certain chill upon him to go into that room. Poor Drummondhimself was lying at the bottom of the river--he could not reproach anyone, even allowing that it was not all his own fault. And yet--thestudio was unpleasant to Mr Burton. It affected his nerves; and inanticipation of his interview with Helen he wanted all his strength.

  But Helen received him very gently, more so than he could have hoped.She had not seen the papers. The world and its interests had gone awayfrom her. She had read nothing but the good books which she felt it wasright to read during her seclusion. She was unaware of all that hadhappened, unsuspicious, did not even care. It had never occurred to herto think of dishonour as possible. All calamity was for her concentratedin the one which had happened, which had left her nothing more to fear.She was seated in a very small room opening on the garden, which hadonce been appropriated to Norah and her playthings. She was very pale,with the white rim of her cap close round her face, and her hairconcealed. Norah was there too, seated close to her mother, giving herwhat support she could with instinctive faithfulness. Mr Burton was moreovercome by the sight of them than he could have thought it possible tobe. They were worse even than the studio. He faltered, he cleared histhroat, he took Helen's hand and held it--then let it drop in a confusedway. He was overcome, she thought, with natural emotion, with grief andpity. And it made her heart soft even to a
man she loved so little.'Thanks,' she murmured, as she sank down upon her chair. That tremor inhis voice covered a multitude of sins.

  'I have been here before,' he said.

  'Yes, so I heard; it was very kind. Don't speak of _that_, please. I amnot able to bear it, though it is kind, very kind of you.'

  'Everybody is sorry for you, Helen,' he said, 'but I don't want torecall your grief to your mind----'

  'Recall!' she said, with a kind of miserable smile. 'That was not what Imeant; but--Reginald--my heart is too sore to bear talking. I--cannotspeak, and--I would rather not cry--not just now.'

  She had not called him Reginald before since they were boy and girltogether; and that, and the piteous look she gave him, and her tremulousprotest that she would rather not cry, gave the man such a twingethrough his very soul as he had never felt before. He would have changedplaces at the moment with one of his own porters to get out of it--toescape from a position which he alone was aware of. Norah was cryingwithout restraint. It was such a scene as a man in the very height ofprosperity and comfort would hesitate to plunge into, even if there hadnot risen before him those ghosts in the newspapers which one day orother, if not now, Helen must find out.

  'What I wanted to speak of was your own plans,' he said hastily, 'whatyou think of doing, and--if you will not think me impertinent--what youhave to depend upon? I am your nearest relation, Helen, and it is rightI should know.'

  'If everything has to be given up, I suppose I shall have nothing,' shesaid faintly. 'There was my hundred a year settled upon me. The paperscame the other day. Who must I give them to? I have nothing, I suppose.'

  'If your hundred a year was settled on you, of course you have that,heaven be praised,' said Mr Burton, 'nobody can touch that. And, Helen,if you like to come back to the old neighbourhood, I have part of ahouse I could offer you. It is of no use to me. I can't let it; so youmight be quite easy in your mind about that. And it is furnished after asort; and it would be rent free.'

  The tears which she had been restraining rushed to her eyes. 'How kindyou are!' she said. 'Oh, I can't say anything, but you are very, verykind.'

  'Never mind about that. You used to speak as if you did not like the oldneighbourhood----'

  'Ah!' she said, 'that was when I cared. All neighbourhoods are the sameto me now.'

  'But you will get to care after a while,' he said. 'You will not alwaysbe as you are now.'

  She shook her head with that faint little gleam of the painfullestsmile. To such a suggestion she could make no answer. She did notbelieve her grief would ever lighten. She did not wish to feeldifferently. She had not even that terrible experience which teachessome that the broken heart must heal one way or other--mend of itswound, or at least have its wound skinned over; for she had never beenquite stricken down to the ground before.

  'Anyhow, you will think of it,' Mr Burton said in a soothing tone.'Norah, you would like to come and live in the country, where there wasa nice large garden and plenty of room to run about. You must persuadeyour mother to come. I won't stay now to worry you, Helen, and besides,my time is precious; but you will let me do this much for you, I hope.'

  She stood up in her black gown, which was so dismal and heavy, withoutany reflection of light in its dull blackness, and held out to him ahand which was doubly white by the contrast, and thin with fasting andwatching. 'You are very kind,' she said again. 'If I ever was unjust toyou, forgive me. I must have a home--for Norah; and I havenowhere--nowhere to go!'

  'Then that is settled,' he said with eagerness. It was an infiniterelief to him. Never in his life had he been so anxious to serveanother. Was it because he had loved her once? because he was fond ofher still? because she was his relation? His wife at that very momentwas pondering on the matter, touching it as it were with a little sharpspear, which was not celestial like Ithuriel's. Being his wife, it wouldhave been natural enough if some little impulse of jealousy had comeacross her, and moved her towards the theory that her husband did thisout of love for his cousin. But Mrs Burton had not blood enough in herveins, and she had too clear an intelligence in her head, to bejealous. She came to such a very different conclusion, that I hesitateto repeat it; and she, too, half scared by the long journey she hadtaken, and her very imperfect knowledge of the way by which she hadtravelled, did not venture to put it into words. But the whisper at thebottom of her heart was, 'Remorse! Remorse!' Mrs Burton herself did notknow for what, nor how far her husband was guilty towards his cousin.

  But it was a relief to all parties when this interview was over. MrBurton went away drawing a long breath. And Helen applied herselfcourageously to the work which was before her. She did not make anyhardship to herself about those men who were taking the inventory. Ithad to be, and what was that--what was the loss of everything incomparison----The larger loss deadened her to the smaller ones, which isnot always the case. She had her own and Norah's clothes to pack, somebooks, a few insignificant trifles which she was allowed to retain, andthe three unfinished pictures, which indeed, had they not been given toher, she felt she could have stolen. The little blurred sketch from theeasel, a trifling subject, meaning little, but bearing in its smearedcolours the last handwriting of poor Robert's despair; and that wistfulface looking up from the depths, up to the bit of blue sky far above andthe one star. Was that the Dives he had thought of, the soul in pain sowistful, so sad, yet scarcely able to despair? It was like his letter, asacred appeal to her not on this earth only, but beyond--an appeal whichwould outlast death and the grave. 'The door into hell,' she did notunderstand, but she knew it had something to do with her husband's lastagony. These mournful relics were all she had to take with her into thechanged world.

  A woman cannot weep violently when she is at work. Tears may come intoher eyes, tears may drop among the garments in which her past is stillexisting, but her movements to and fro, her occupations, stem the fulltide and arrest it. Helen was quite calm. While Norah brought the thingsfor her out of the drawers she talked to the child as ordinary peopletalk whose hearts are not broken. She had fallen into a certainstillness--a hush of feeling. It did her good to be astir. When theboxes were full and fastened she turned to her pictures, enveloping themcarefully, protecting the edges with cushions of folded paper. Norah wasstill very busy in finding the cord for her, and holding the canvasesin their place. The child had rummaged out a heap of old newspapers,with which the packing was being done. Suddenly she began to cry as shestood holding one in her hand.

  'Oh, mamma!' she said, looking up with big eyes in Helen's face. Cryingwas not so rare in the house as to surprise her mother. She said--

  'Hush, my darling!' and went on. But when she felt the paper thrust intoher hand, Helen stopped short in her task and looked, not at it but atNorah. The tears were hanging on the child's cheeks, but she had stoppedcrying. She pointed to one column in the paper and watched her motherwith eyes like those of Dives in the picture. Helen gave a cry when shelooked at it, 'Ah!' as if some sharp blow had been given to her. It wasthe name, nothing but her husband's name, that had pierced her like asudden dagger. But she read on, without doubting, without thinking. Itwas the article written two days before on the history of the painterDrummond, 'the wretched man,' who had furnished a text for a sermon tothe _Daily Semaphore_.

  Norah had read only a sentence at the beginning which she but partiallyunderstood. It was something unkind, something untrue about 'poorpapa.' But she read her mother now instead, comprehending it by herlooks. Helen went over the whole without drawing breath. It brought backthe blood to her pale cheeks; it ran like a wild new life into everyvein, into every nerve. She turned round in the twinkling of an eye,without a pause for thought, and put on the black bonnet with itsoverwhelming crape veil which had been brought to her that morning. Shehad not wanted it before. It was the first time in her life that she hadrequired to look at the world through those folds of crape.

  'May I come too, mamma?' said Norah softly. She did not know where theywere going; but henceforw
ard where her mother was there was the placefor Norah, at home or abroad, sleeping or waking. The child clung toHelen's hand as they opened the familiar door, and went out onceagain--after a lifetime--into the once familiar, the changed and awfulworld. A summer evening, early June, the bloom newly off the lilacs, thefirst roses coming on the trees; the strange daylight dazzled them, thesound of passing voices buzzed and echoed as if they had been the centreof a crowd. Or rather, this was their effect upon Helen. Norah clingingto her hand, pressed close to her side, watched her, and thought ofnothing more.

  Dr Maurice was going to his solitary dinner. He had washed his hands andmade himself daintily nice and tidy, as he always was; but he had notchanged his morning coat. He was standing with his back against thewriting-table in his library, looking up dreamily at poor Drummond'spicture, and waiting for the sound of the bell which should summon himinto the next room to his meal. When the door bell sounded insteadimpatience seized him.

  'What fool can be coming now?' he said to himself, and turned round intime to see John's scared face peeping into the room before heintroduced those two figures, those two with their dark black dresses,the one treading in the very steps of the other, moving with hermovement. He gave a cry of surprise. He had not seen them since the dayafter Drummond's death. He had gone to inquire, and had left anxiouskind messages, but he, too, had conventional ideas in his mind and hadthought the widow 'would not be able' to see any one. Yet now she hadcome to him--

  'Dr Maurice,' she said, with no other preliminary, coming forward tothe table with her newspaper, holding out no hand, giving him nosalutation, while Norah moved with her step for step, like a shadow. 'DrMaurice, what does this mean?'