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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan & the onlineDistributed Proofreaders Canada team athttps://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced fromimages generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)

  AT HIS GATES.

  A Novel.

  BY MRS OLIPHANT,

  AUTHOR OF 'CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,' ETC., ETC.

  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.

  LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1872.

  [_All rights reserved_]

  JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

  AT HIS GATES.

  CHAPTER I.

  The drawing-room within was very different from the wild conflict oflight and darkness outside. There was music going on at one end, somepeople were reading, some talking. There were flirtations in hand, andgrave discussions. In short, the evening was being spent as people areapt to spend the evening when there is nothing particular going on.There had been a good deal of private yawning and inspection of watchesthroughout the evening, and some of the party had already gone to bed,or rather to their rooms, where they could indulge in the happiness offancying themselves somewhere else--an amusement which is very popularand general in a country house.

  But seated in an easy-chair by the fire was a tall man, carefullydressed, with diamond studs in his shirt, and a toilette which, thoughsubdued in tone as a gentleman's evening dress must be, was yet tooelaborate for the occasion. The fact that this new guest was a strangerto him, and that his father was seated by him in close conversation,made it at once apparent to Ned that it must be Golden. Clara was closeto them listening with a look of eager interest to all they said. Thesethree made a little detached group by one side of the fire. At the othercorner sat Mrs Burton, with her little feet on a footstool, as near aspossible to the fender. She had just said good-night to the dignifiedmembers of the party, the people who had to be considered; the otherswho remained were mere young people, about whose proceedings she did notconcern herself. She was taking no part in the talk at the other side ofthe fire. She sat and warmed her little toes and pondered; her vividlittle mind all astir and working, but uninfluenced by, and somewhatcontemptuous of, what was going on around; and her chilly little personbasking in the ruddy warmth of the fire.

  Ned came up and stood by her when he came in. No one took any notice ofhim, the few persons who remained in the room having other affairs inhand. Ned was fond of his mother, though she had never shown anyfondness for him. She had done all for him which mere intellect coulddo. She had been very just to the boy all his life; when he got intoscrapes, as boys will, she had not backed him up emotionally, it istrue, but she had taken all the circumstances into account, and had notjudged him harshly. She had been tolerant when his father was harsh. Shehad never lost her temper. He had always felt that he could appeal toher sense of justice--to her calm and impartial reason. This is not muchlike the confidence with which a boy generally throws himself upon hismother's sympathy, yet it was a great deal in Ned's case. Andaccordingly he loved his mother. Mrs Burton, too, loved him perhaps morethan she loved any one. She was doing her best to break his heart; butthat is not at all uncommon even when parents and children adore eachother. And then Ned was not aware that his mother had any shareintentionally or otherwise in the cruel treatment he had received.

  'Who is that?' he asked under his breath.

  'A Mr Golden, a friend of your father's,' said Mrs Burton, lifting hereyes and turning them calmly upon the person she named. There was nofeeling in them of one kind or another, and yet Ned felt that she atleast did not admire Mr Golden, and it was a comfort to him. He wentforward to the fire, and placed himself, as an Englishman loves to do,in front of it. He stood there for ten minutes or so, paying noparticular attention to the conversation on his right hand. His father,however, looked more animated than he had done for a long time, andClara was bending forward with a faint rose-tint from the fire tingingthe whiteness of her forehead and throat, and deeper roses glowing onher cheeks. Her blue eyes were following Mr Golden's movements as hespoke, her hair was shining like crisp gold in the light. She was such astudy of colour, of splendid flesh and blood, as Rubens would haveworshipped; and Mr Golden had discrimination enough to perceive it. Hestopped to address himself to Clara. He turned to her, and gave herlooks of admiration, for which her brother, bitterly enough biassedagainst him on his own account, could have 'throttled the fellow!' Nedgrew more and more wrathful as he looked on. And in the mean time thelate young ladies came fluttering to say good-night to their hostess;the young men went off to the smoking-room, where Ned knew he ought toaccompany them, but did not, being too fully occupied; and thus thefamily were left alone. Notwithstanding, however, his wrath and hiscuriosity, it was only the sound of one name which suddenly made theconversation by his side quite articulate and intelligible to Ned.

  'I hear the Drummond has a pretty daughter; that is a new weapon forher, Burton. I wonder you venture to have such a family established atyour gates.'

  'The daughter is not particularly pretty; not so pretty by a long way asHelen was,' said Mr Burton. 'I don't see what harm she can do with poorlittle Norah. We are not afraid of her, Clara, are we?' and he lookedadmiringly at his daughter, and laughed.

  As for Clara she grew crimson. She was not a girl of much feeling, butstill there was something of the woman in her.

  'I don't understand how we could be supposed to be afraid of NorahDrummond,' she said.

  'But I assure you I do,' said Mr Golden. 'Pardon me, but I don't supposeyou have seen the Drummond herself, the Drummond mamma--in a fury.'

  'Father,' said Ned, 'is Mr Golden aware that the lady he is speaking ofis our relation--and friend? Do you mean to suffer her to be so spokenof in your house?'

  'Hold your tongue, Ned.'

  'Ned! to be sure it is Ned. Why, my boy, you have grown out of allrecollection,' said Golden, jumping up with a great show of cordiality,and holding out his hand.

  Ned bowed, and drew a step nearer his mother. He had his hands in hispockets; there were times, no doubt, when his manners left a great dealto be desired.

  'Ah, I see! there are spells,' said Mr Golden, and he took his seatagain with a hearty laugh--a laugh so hearty that there seemed just apossibility of strain and forced merriment in it. 'My dear Miss Burton,'he said, in an undertone, which however Ned could hear, 'didn't I tellyou there was danger? Here's an example for you, sooner than I thought.'

  'Mother,' said Ned, 'can I get your candle? I am sure it is time for youto go up-stairs.'

  'Yes, and for Clara too. Run away, child, and take care of your roses;Golden and I have some business to talk over; run away. As for you, Ned,to-morrow morning I shall have something to say to you.'

  'Very well, sir,' said Ned solemnly.

  He lighted his mother's candle, and he gave her his arm, having made uphis mind not to let her go. The sounds of laughter which came faintlyfrom the smoking-room did not tempt him; if truth must be told, theytempted Clara much more, who stood for a moment with her candle in herhand, and said to herself, 'What fun they must be having!' and frettedagainst the feminine fetters which bound her. Such a thought would nothave come into Norah's head, nor into Katie Dalton's, nor even into thatof Lady Florizel, though it was a foolish little head enough; but Clara,who was all flesh and blood, and had been badly brought up, was the oneof those four girls who probably would have impressed most deeply ajournalist's fancy as illustrating the social problem of English youngwomanhood.

  Ned led his mother not to her own room, but to his. He made her come in,and placed a chair for her before the fire. It is probable that he hadsense enough to feel tha
t had he asked her consent to his marriage withNorah Drummond he would have found difficulties in his way; but short ofthis, he had full confidence in the justice which indeed he had neverhad any reason to doubt.

  'Do you like this man Golden, mother?' he asked. 'Tell me, what is hisconnection with us?'

  'His connection, I suppose, is a business connection with your father,'said Mrs Burton. 'For the rest, I neither like him nor hate him. He iswell enough, I suppose, in his way.'

  'Mrs Drummond does not think so,' said Ned.

  'Ah, Mrs Drummond! She is a woman of what are called strong feelings. Idon't suppose she ever stopped to inquire into the motives of anybodywho went against her in her life. She jumps at a conclusion, and reachesit always from her own point of view. According to her view of affairs,I don't wonder, with her disposition, that she should hate him.'

  'Why, mother?'

  'Well,' said Mrs Burton, I am not in the habit of using words whichwould come naturally to a mind like Mrs Drummond's. But from her pointof view, I should say, she must believe that he ruined herhusband--drove him to suicide, and then did all he could to ruin hisreputation. These are things, I allow, which people do not readilyforget.'

  'And, mother, do you believe all this? Is it true?'

  'I state it in a different way,' she said. 'Mr Golden, I suppose,thought the business could be redeemed, to start with. When he drew poorMr Drummond into active work in the concern, he did it in a moment whenthere was nobody else to refer to. And then you must remember, Ned, thatMr Drummond had enjoyed a good deal of profit, and had as much right asany of the others to suffer in the loss. He was ignorant of business, tobe sure, and did not know what he was doing; but then an ignorant manhas no right to go into business. Mr Golden is very sharp, and he had topreserve himself if he could. It was quite natural he should takeadvantage of the other's foolishness. And then I don't suppose he everimagined that poor Mr Drummond would commit suicide. He himself wouldnever have done it under similar circumstances--nor your father.'

  'Had my father anything to do with this?' said Ned hoarsely.

  'That is not the question,' said Mrs Burton. 'But neither the one northe other would have done anything so foolish. How were they to supposeMr Drummond would? This sort of thing requires a power of realisingother people's ways of thinking which few possess, Ned. After he wasdead, and it could not be helped, I don't find anything surprising,' shewent on, putting her feet nearer the fire, 'in the fact that Mr Goldenturned it to his advantage. It could not hurt Drummond any more, youknow. Of course it hurt his wife's feelings; but I am not clear how farGolden was called upon to consider the feelings of Drummond's wife. Itwas a question of life and death for himself. Of course I do not believefor a moment, and I don't suppose anybody whose opinion is worthconsidering could believe, that a poor, innocent, silly man destroyedthose books--'

  'Mother, I don't know what you are speaking of; but it seems to me as ifyou were describing the most devilish piece of villany----'

  'People do employ such words, no doubt,' said Mrs Burton calmly; 'Idon't myself. But if that is how it appears to your mind, you are rightenough to express yourself so. Of course that is Mrs Drummond's opinion.I have something to say to you about the Drummonds, Ned.'

  'One moment, mother,' he cried, with a tremor and heat of excitementwhich puzzled her perhaps more than anything she had yet met with in thematter. For why should Ned be disturbed by a thing which did not concernhim, and which had happened so long ago? 'You have mentioned my father.You have said _they_, speaking of this man's infamous----Was my fatherconcerned?'

  Mrs Burton turned, and looked her son in the face. The smallest littleghost of agitation--a shadow so faint that it would not have showedupon any other face--glided over hers.

  'That is just the point on which I can give you least information,' shesaid; and then, after a pause, 'Ned,' she continued, 'you are grown up;you are capable of judging for yourself. I tell you I don't know. I amnot often deterred by any cause from following out a question I aminterested in; but I have preferred not to follow up this. I put awayall the papers, thinking I might some day care to go into it moredeeply. You can have them if you like. To tell the truth,' she added,sinking her voice, betrayed into a degree of confidence which perhapsshe had never given to human creature before, 'I think it is a bad signthat this man has come back.'

  'A sign of what?'

  Mrs Burton's agitation increased. Though it was the very slightest ofagitations, it startled Ned, so unlike was it to his mother.

  'Ned,' she said, with a shiver that might be partly cold, 'nobody that Iever heard of is so strong as their own principles. I do not know, if itcame to me to have to bear it, whether I could bear ruin and disgrace.'

  'Ruin and disgrace!' cried Ned.

  'I don't know if I have fortitude enough. Perhaps I could by myself; Ishould feel that it was brought about by natural means, and that blamewas useless and foolish. But if we had to bear the comments in thenewspapers, the talk of everybody, the reflections on our past, I don'tknow whether I have fortitude to bear it; I feel as if I could not.

  'Mother, has this been in your mind, while I have been thinking you tookso little interest? My poor little mamma!'

  The wicked little woman! And yet all that she had been saying wasperfectly true.

  'Ned,' she said, with great seriousness, 'this dread, which I can neverget quite out of my mind, is the reason why I have been so very earnestabout the Merewethers. I have never, you know, supported your father'swish that you should go into the business. On the contrary, I havealways endeavoured to secure you your own career. I have wished that youat least should be safe----'

  'Safe!' he cried. 'Mother, if there is a possibility of disgrace, howcan I, how can any of us, escape from it--and more especially I? And ifthere is a chance of ruin, why I should be as great a villain as thatman is, should I consent to carry it into another house.'

  'It is quite a different case,' she cried with some eagerness, seeingshe had overshot her mark. 'I hope there will be neither; and you havenot the least reason to suppose that either is possible. Look round you;go with your father to the office, inspect his concerns as much as youplease; you will see nothing but evidences of prosperity. So far as youknow, or can know, your father is one of the most prosperous men inEngland. Nobody would have a word to say against you, and I shall berich enough to provide for you. If there is any downfall at all, which Ido not expect, nobody would ever imagine for a moment that you knewanything of it; and your career and your comfort would be safe.'

  'O mother! mother!' Poor Ned turned away from her and hid his face inhis hands. This was worse to him than all the rest.

  'You ought to think it over most carefully,' she said; 'all this isperfectly clear before you. I may have taken fright, though it is notvery like me. I may be fanciful enough' (Mrs Burton smiled at herself,and even Ned in his misery half smiled) 'to consider this man as a sortof raven, boding misfortune. But you know nothing about it; there isabundant time for you to save yourself and your credit; and this is thewish which, above everything in the world, I have most at heart, that,if there is going to be any disaster,--I don't expect it, I don'tbelieve in it; but mercantile men are always subject to misfortune,--youmight at least be safe. I will not say anything more about it to-night;but think it over, Ned.'

  She rose as she spoke and took up her candle, and her son bent over herand touched her little cold face with his hot lips. 'I will send you thepapers,' she said as she went away. Strange little shadow of a mother!She glided along the passage, not without a certain maternalsentiment--a feeling that on the whole she was doing what was best forher boy. _She_ could provide for him, whatever happened; and if evilcame he might so manage as to thrust himself out from under the shadowof the evil. She was a curious problem, this woman; she could enter intoMr Golden's state of mind, but not into her son's. She could fathomthose struggles of self-preservation which might lead a man into fraudand robbery; but she cou
ld not enter into those which tore a generous,sensitive, honourable soul in pieces. She was an analyst, with thelowest view of human nature, and not a sympathetic being entering intothe hearts of others by means of her own.

  No smoking-room, no jovial midnight party, received Ned that night. Hesat up till the slow November morning dawned reading those papers; andthen he threw himself on his bed, and hid his face from the coldincreasing light. A bitterness which he could not put into words, whicheven to himself it was impossible to explain, filled his heart. Therewas nothing, or at least very little, about his father in these papers.There was no accusation made against Mr Burton, nothing that any onecould take hold of--only here and there a word of ominous suggestionwhich chilled the blood in his veins. But Golden's character was notspared by any one; it came out in all its blackness, more distinct eventhan it could have done at the moment these events occurred. Men hadread the story at the time with their minds full of foregone conclusionson the subject--of prejudices and the heat of personal feeling. But toNed it was history; and as he read Golden's character stood out beforehim as in a picture. And this man, this deliberate cold-bloodedscoundrel, was sleeping calmly under his father's roof--a guest whom hisfather delighted to honour. Ned groaned, and covered his eyes with hishands to shut out the hazy November morning, as if it were a spy thatmight find out something from his haggard countenance. Sleep was farfrom his eyes; his brain buzzed with the unaccustomed crowd of thoughtsthat whirled and rustled through it. A hundred projects, all verypracticable at the first glance and impossible afterwards, flashedbefore him. The only thing that he never thought of was that which hismother had called the wish of her heart--that he should escape andsecure his own career out of the possible fate that might be impending.This, of all projects, was the only one which, first and last, wasimpossible to Ned.

  The first step which he took in the matter was one strangely different.He had to go through all the ordinary remarks of the breakfast-tableupon his miserable looks; but he was too much agitated to be very wellaware what people were saying to him. He watched anxiously till he sawhis father prepare to leave the house. Fortunately Mr Golden was notwith him. Mr Golden was a man of luxury, who breakfasted late, and hadnot so much as made his appearance at the hour when Mr Burton, who,above everything, was a man of business, started for the station. Nedwent out with him, avoiding his mother's eye. He took from his father'shand a little courier's bag full of papers which he was taking with him.

  'I will carry it for you, sir,' he said.

  Mr Burton was intensely surprised; the days were long gone by when Nedwould strut by his side, putting out his chest in imitation of hisfather.

  'Wants some money, I suppose!' Mr Burton--no longer the boy's proudprogenitor, but a wary parent, awake to all the possible snares andtraps which are set for such--said to himself.

  They had reached the village before Ned had began to speak of anythingmore important than the weather or the game. Then he broke into hissubject quite abruptly.

  'Father,' he said, 'within the last few days I have been thinking of agreat many things. I have been thinking that for your only son to sethis face against business was hard lines on you. Will you tell mefrankly whether a fellow like me, trained so differently, would be ofreal use to you? Could I help you to keep things straight, save you frombeing cheated?--do anything for you? I have changed my ideas on a greatmany subjects. This is what I want to know.'

  'Upon my word, a wonderful conversion,' said his father with a laugh;'there must be some famous reason for a change so sudden. Help _me_ tokeep things straight!--Keep ME from being cheated! You simpleton! youhave at least a capital opinion of yourself.'

  'But it was with that idea, I suppose, that you thought of putting meinto the business,' said Ned, overcoming with an effort his first boyishimpulse of offence.

  'Perhaps in the long-run,' said Mr Burton jocularly; 'but not all atonce, my fine fellow. Your Greek and your Latin won't do you muchservice in the city, my boy. Though you have taken your degree--and adeuced deal of money that costs, a great deal more than it's worth--youwould have to begin by singing very small in the office. You would bejunior clerk to begin with at fifty pounds a year. How should you findthat suit your plans, my fine gentleman Ned?'

  'Was that all you intended me for?' asked Ned sternly. A rigid air andtone was the best mask he could put upon his bitter mortification.

  'Certainly, at first,' said Mr Burton; 'but I have changed my mindaltogether on the subject,' he added sharply. 'I see that I wasaltogether deceived in you. You never would be of any use in business.If you were in Golden's hands, perhaps--but you have let yourself beinfluenced by some wretched fool or other.'

  'Has Mr Golden anything to say to your business?' asked Ned.

  The question took his father by surprise.

  'Confound your impudence!' he cried, after a keen glance at his son andsputter of confused words, which sounded very much like swearing. 'Whathas given you so sudden an interest in my business, I should like toknow? Do you think I am too old to manage it for myself?'

  'It was the sight of this man, father,' said Ned, with boyish simplicityand earnestness, 'and the knowledge who he was. Couldn't I serve youinstead of him? I pledge you my word to give up all that you considernonsense, to settle steadily to business. I am not a fool, though I amignorant. And then if I am ignorant, no man could serve you so truly asyour son would, whose interests are the same as yours. Try me! I couldserve you better than he.'

  'You preposterous idiot!' cried Mr Burton, who had made two or threechanges from anger to ridicule while this speech was being delivered.'You serve me better than Golden!--Golden, by Jove! And may I ask if Iwere to accept this splendid offer of yours, what would you expect as anequivalent? My consent to some wretched marriage or other, I suppose,allowance doubled, home provided, and my blessing, eh? I suppose that iswhat you are aiming at. Out with it--how much was the equivalent to be?'

  'Nothing,' said Ned. He had grown crimson; his eyes were cast down, notto betray the feeling in them--a choking sensation was in his throat.Then he added slowly--'not even the fifty pounds a year you offered mejust now--nothing but permission to stand by you, to help to--keepdanger off.'

  Mr Burton took the bag roughly out of his hand. 'Go home,' he said, 'youyoung ass; and be thankful I don't chastise you for your impudence.Danger!--I should think you were the danger if you were not such a fool.Go home! I don't desire your further company. A pretty help and defenderyou would be!'

  And Ned found himself suddenly standing alone outside the station, hisfingers tingling with the roughness with which the bag had been snatchedfrom him. He stood still for half a minute, undecided, and then heturned round and strolled listlessly back along the street. He was veryunhappy. His father was still his father, though he had begun todistrust, and had long given over expecting any sympathy from him. Andthe generous resolution which it had cost him so much pain to make, hadnot only come to nothing, but had been trampled under foot withderision. His heart was very sore. It was a hazy morning, with afrosty, red sun trying hard to break through the mist; and everythingmoved swiftly to resist the cold, and every step rang sharp upon theroad; except poor Ned's, who had not the heart to do anything butsaunter listlessly and slowly, with his hands in his pockets and hiseyes fixed wistfully upon nothing. Everything in a moment had becomeblank to him. He wondered why the people took the trouble to take offtheir hats to him--to one who was the heir of misery and perhaps ofdisgrace and ruin, as his mother had said. Ruin and disgrace! What awfulwords they are when you come to think of it--dreadful to look forwardto, and still more dreadful to bear if any man could ever realise theiractual arrival to himself!

  Norah was standing at the open door of the Gatehouse. He thought for amoment that he would pass without taking any notice; and then itoccurred to him in a strange visionary way that it might be the lasttime he should see her. He stopped, and she said a cold little 'Goodmorning' to him, without even offering her hand. The
n a sudden yearningseized poor Ned.

  'Norah,' he said, in that listless way, 'I wish you would say somethingkind to me to-day. I don't know why I should be so anxious for it, butI think it would do me good. If you knew how unhappy I am----'

  'Oh Ned, for heaven's sake don't talk such nonsense,' cried impatientNorah. '_You_ unhappy, that never knew what it was to have anything gowrong! It makes me quite ill to hear you. You that have got everythingthat heart can desire; because you can't just exactly have your ownway--about--me--Oh, go away; I cannot put up with such nonsense--and tome, too, that knows what real trouble means!'

  Poor Ned made no protest against this impatient decision. He put on hishat in a bewildered way, with one long look at her, and then passed, anddisappeared within his father's gates. Norah did not know what to makeof it. She stood at the door, bewildered too, ready to wave her hand andsmile at him when he looked round; but he never looked round. He went onslowly, listlessly, as if he did not care for anything--doing what bothhad told him--the father whom he had been willing to give up his lifeto--the girl who had his heart.

  That afternoon he carried out their commands still more fully. He wentaway from his father's house. On a visit, it was said; but to go awayon a visit in the middle of the shooting season, when your father'shouse is full of guests, was, all the young men thought, the mostextraordinary thing which, even in the freedom of the nineteenthcentury, an only son, deputy master of the establishment, had ever beenknown to do.