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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER V.

  'You must be dreaming,' cried Dr Maurice with energy. 'You must bedreaming! With my--folly--and other things--you have got into a nervousstate.'

  'I am not dreaming,' she said very quietly. There was no appearance ofexcitement about her. She sat with her hands clasped tightly together,and her eyes wandering into the unknown, into the vacant air before her.And her mind had got possession of one burden, and went over and overit, repeating within herself, 'John Sinclair, Thirty-fifth Avenue, NewYork.'

  'I will show you the same picture,' she went on. 'The very same, linefor line. It was the last he ever did. And in his letter he spoke ofDives looking up----John Sinclair, Thirty-fifth Avenue, New York!'

  'Helen, Helen!' said Dr Maurice with a look of pity. He had nevercalled her anything but Mrs Drummond till the evening before, and nowthe other seemed so natural; for, in fact, she did not even notice whathe called her. 'How easy is it to account for all this! Some one elsemust have seen the sketch, who was impressed by it as much as you were,and who knew the artist was dead, and could never claim his property.How easy to see how it may have been done, especially by a smart Yankeeabroad.'

  She shook her head without a word, with a faint smile; argument made nodifference to her. She was sure; and what did it matter what any onesaid?

  'Then I will tell you what I will do,' he said. 'I have some friends inNew York. I will have inquiries made instantly about John Sinclair.Indeed it is quite possible some one may know him here. I shall setevery kind of inquiry on foot to-morrow, to satisfy you. I warn younothing will come of it--nothing would make me believe such a thing; butstill, to prevent you taking any rash steps----'

  'I will take no rash steps,' she said. 'I will do nothing. I will waittill--I hear.'

  'Why this is madness,' he said. And then all at once a cold shudderpassed over him, and he said to himself, 'Good God! what if she had notrefused last night!'

  But the very fact that she had refused was a kind of guarantee thatthere was nothing in this wild idea of hers. Had there been anything init, of course she would have accepted, and all sorts of horrors wouldhave ensued. Such was Dr Maurice's opinion of Providence, and theopinion of many other judicious people. The fact that a suddenre-appearance would do no harm made it so much less likely that therewould be any re-appearance. He tried hard to dismiss the idea altogetherfrom his mind. It was not a comfortable idea. It is against all thetraditions, all the prejudices of life, that a man should come back fromthe dead. A wild, despairing Dives might wish for it, or a mourner halffrantic with excess of sorrow; but to the ordinary looker-on the idea isso strange as to be painful. Dr Maurice had a true affection for RobertDrummond; but he could not help feeling that it would be out of allcharacter, out of harmony, almost an offence upon decency, that heshould not be dead.

  It was curious, however, what an effect this fancy of Helen's had inclearing away the cloud of embarrassment which had naturally fallenbetween her and him. All that produced that cloud had evidentlydisappeared from her mind. She remembered it no more. It was not thatshe had thrust it away of set will and purpose, but that without anyeffort it had disappeared. This was, it is true, somewhat humiliating toDr Maurice; but it was very convenient for all the purposes of life thatit should be so. And she sat with him now and discussed the matter,abstracted in the great excitement which had taken possession of her,yet calmed by it, without a recollection that anything had ever passedbetween them which could confuse their intercourse. Thisunconsciousness, I say, was humiliating in one sense, though in anotherit was a relief, to the man who did not forget; but it confused himwhile it set Helen at her ease. It was so extraordinary to realise whatwas the state of affairs yesterday, and what to-day--to enter into sonew and wonderful a region of possibilities, after having lived so longin quite another; for, to be sure, Helen had only known of Dr Maurice'sproject as regarded herself since last night; whereas, he had known itfor six months, and during all that time had been accustoming himself toit, and now had to make a mental spring as far away from it aspossible--a kind of gymnastic exercise which has a very bewilderingeffect upon an ordinary mind.

  It was a relief to all the party when the Drummonds went home nextmorning; except, perhaps, to the old aunt, who had grown interested inthe human drama thus unexpectedly produced before her, and who wouldhave liked to see it out. The mother and daughter were glad to go home;and yet how life had changed to them in these three days! It had givento Helen the glow of a wild, incomprehensible hope, a somethingsupernatural, mixed with terror and wonder, and a hundred conflictingemotions; while to Norah it had taken the romance out of life. Tocontemplate life without romance is hard upon a girl; to have a peep, asit were, behind the scenes, and see the gold of fairy-land corrodingitself into slates, and the beauty into dust and ashes. Such arevolution chills one to the very soul. It is almost worse than thepositive heart-break of disappointed love, for that has a warm admixtureof excitement, and is supported by the very sharpness of its ownsuffering; whereas in Norah's pain there was but disenchantment andangry humiliation, and that horrible sense that the new light was trueand the other false, which takes all courage from the heart. She hadtold her mother, and Helen had been very indignant, but not so wroth asher daughter. 'Lady Rivers might have no time to wait--she might havewanted him for something urgent--there might be something to explain,'Helen said; but as for Norah, she felt that no explanation was possible.For months past this man had been making a show of his devotion to her.He had done everything except ask her in words to be his wife. He hadbeen as her shadow, whenever he could come to Dura, and his visits hadbeen so frequent that it was very evident he had seized everyopportunity to come: yet the moment his mother appeared on the scene,the woman whom in all the world he ought to have most wished to attachto the girl whom he loved, he had left her with shame andembarrassment--escaped from her without even the politeness of aleave-taking. Norah had wondered whether she cared for him in the olddays; she had asked herself shyly, as girls do, whether the littleflutter of her heart at his appearance could possibly mean thatsacredest, most wonderful and fascinating of mysteries--love? Sometimesshe had been disposed to believe it did: and then again she hadsurprised herself in the midst of a sudden longing for poor Ned with hisbig nose, and had blushed and asked herself angrily, was the onecompatible with the other? In short, she had not known what to make ofher own feelings; for she was not experienced enough to be able to tellthe difference--a difference which sometimes puzzles the wisest--betweenthe effect produced by gratified vanity, and pleasure in the love ofanother, and that which springs from love itself. But she was in nodoubt about the anger, the mortification, the indignant shame with whichher whole nature rose up against the man who had dared to be ashamed ofher. Of this there could be no explanation. She said to herself that shehoped he would not come again or attempt to make any explanation, andthen she resented bitterly the fact that he did not come. She had madeup her mind what she would say, how she would crush him with quietscorn, and wonder at his apologies. 'Why should you apologise, MrRivers? I had no wish to be introduced to your mother,' she meant tosay; but as day after day passed, and he gave her no opportunity ofsaying this, Norah's thoughts grew more bitter, more fiery than ever.And life was dull without this excitement in it. The weather was bright,and the season sweet, and I suppose she had her share of rationalpleasure as in other seasons; but to her own consciousness Norah wasbitterly ill-used, insomuch as she had not an opportunity to tell, or atleast to show Cyril Rivers what she thought of him. It had been animmediate comfort to her after the affront he had put upon her, thatshe would have this in her power.

  The change that had come upon the lives of the two ladies in theGatehouse was, however, scarcely apparent to their little world. Norahwas a little out of temper, fitful, and ready to take offence, theDaltons at the Rectory thought; and Mrs Drummond was more silent thanusual, and had an absorbed look in her eyes, a look of abstraction forwhich it was difficult to account. But this was a
ll that was apparentoutside. Perhaps Mr Rivers was a little longer than usual in visitingDura; he had not been there for ten days, and Katie Dalton wonderedaudibly what had become of him. But nobody except Norah supposed for amoment that his connection with Dura was to be broken off in this suddenway. And everything else went on as usual. If Mrs Drummond was lessfrequently visible, no one remarked it much. Norah would run over andask Katie to walk with her, on the plea that 'mamma has a headache,' andMrs Dalton would gather her work together, and cross the road in thesunshine and 'sit with' the sufferer. But the only consequence of thisvisit would be that the blinds would be drawn down over the threewindows in front, Mrs Dalton having an idea that light was bad for aheadache, and that when she returned she would tell her eldest daughterthat poor dear Mrs Drummond was very poorly, and very anxious for newsof a friend whom she had not heard of for years.

  And the picture of Dives, which had been hung in a sacred corner, whereHelen said her prayers, was brought out, and placed in the full light ofday. It was even for a time brought down-stairs, while the first glow ofnovel hope and wonder lasted, and placed in the drawing-room, whereeverybody who saw it wondered at it. It was not so well painted as thegreat picture in the Academy. It was even different in many of itsdetails. There was no hope in the face of this, but only a haggardpassionate despair, while the look of the other was concentrated intosuch an agony of appealing as cannot exist where there is no hope. DrMaurice even, when he came down, declared forcibly that it was difficultfor him to trace the resemblance. Perhaps the leading idea was the same,but then it was so differently worked out. He looked at the picture inevery possible light, and this was the conclusion he came to;--No; noparticular resemblance,--a coincidence, that was all. And John Sinclairwas a perfectly well-known painter, residing in New York, a man known toDr Maurice's friends there. Why there was no name to the picture in thecatalogue nobody could tell. It was some absurd mistake or other; butJohn Sinclair, the painter, was a man who had been known in New York foryears. 'Depend upon it, it is only a coincidence,' Dr Maurice said.After that visit, from what feeling I cannot say, the picture was takenback up-stairs. Not that Mrs Drummond was convinced, but that she shrankfrom further discussion of a matter on which she felt so deeply. Shewould sit before it for hours, gazing at it, careless of everythingelse; and if I were to reproduce all the thoughts that coursed throughHelen's mind, I should do her injury with the reader, who, no doubt,believes that the feelings in a wife's mind, when such a hope enteredit, could only be those of a half-delirious joy. But Helen's thoughtswere not wildly joyful. She had been hardly and painfully trained to dowithout him, to put him out of her life. Her soul had slid into newways, changed meanings; and in that time what change of meaning, whatdifference of nature, might have come to a man who had returned fromdeath and the grave? Could it all be undone? Could it float away like atale that is told, that tale of seven long years? Would the oldassimilate with the new, and the widow become a wife again without somewrench, some convulsion of nature? Not long before she had denouncedthe name vehemently, crying out against it, declaring that she did notbelieve in it: but now, when perhaps it might turn out that herwidowhood had been indeed a fiction and unreal--now! How she was to be awife again; how her existence was to suffer a new change, and returninto its old channel, Helen could not tell. And yet that Robert shouldlive again, that he should receive some recompense for all hissufferings; that even she who had been in her way so cruel to him,should be able to make up for it--for that Helen would have given herlife. The news about John Sinclair was a discouragement, but still itdid not touch her faith. She carried her picture up-stairs again, andput it reverently, not in its old corner, but where the sunshine wouldfall upon it and the full light of day. The fancifulness of thisproceeding did not occur to her, for grief and hope, and all the deeperemotions of the heart, are always fanciful: and in this time ofsuspense, when she could do nothing, when she was waiting, listening forindications of what was coming, that silent idol-worship which no oneknew of, did her good.

  Meanwhile Dura went on blazing with lights, and sweet with music, makingevery day a holiday. Mrs Burton did not walk so much as she used to do,but drove about, giving her orders, paying her visits, with beautifulhorses which half the county envied, and toilettes which would have beenremarked even in the park. 'That little woman is losing her head,' theRector said, as he looked at an invitation his wife had just receivedfor a f?te which was to eclipse all the others, and which was given incelebration of Clara's birthday. It was fixed for the 6th of July, andpeople were coming to it from far and near. There was to be a gardenparty first, a sumptuous so-called breakfast, and a ball at night. Thewhole neighbourhood was agitated by the preparations for this solemnity.It was said that Ned, poor Ned, whose disappearance was now an oldstory, was to be disinherited, and that Clara was to be the heiress ofall. The importance thus given to her birthday gave a certain colour tothe suggestion; it was like a coming of age, people said, and replacedthe festivities which ought to have taken place on the day when Nedcompleted his twenty-first year, a day which had passed very quietly afew weeks before, noted by none. But to Clara's birthday feast everybodywas invited. The great county people, the Merewethers themselves, werecoming, and in consideration of Clara's possible heiress-ship, it waswhispered that the Marchioness had thoughts of making her son acandidate for the place deserted by Cyril Rivers. Cyril, too, moreover,was among the guests; he was one of a large party which was coming fromtown; and the village people were asked, the Daltons and the Drummonds,beside all the lesser gentry of the neighbourhood. It was to KatieDalton's importunate beseechings, seconded, no doubt, by her own heart,which had begun to tire of seclusion and long for a little pleasure,that Norah relinquished her first proud determination not to go; and DrMaurice had just sent a box from town containing two dresses, one forthe evening, and one for out-of-doors, which it was beyond the powers ofany girl of nineteen to refuse the opportunity of wearing. When Norahhad made up her own mind to this effort, she addressed herself to thetask of overcoming her mother's reluctance; and, after much labour,succeeded so far that a compromise was effected. Norah went to theout-door f?te, under the charge of Mrs Dalton, and Helen with a sightook out her black silk gown once more, and prepared to go with herchild in the evening. The Daltons were always there, good neighbours tosupport and help her; and seated by Mrs Dalton's side, who knewsomething of her anxiety about that friend whom she had not heard of foryears, Mrs Drummond felt herself sustained. When Norah returned withthe Daltons from the garden party, Mr Rivers accompanied the girls. Hecame with them to the door of the Gatehouse, where Katie, secretly heldfast by Norah, accompanied her friend. He lingered on the white steps,waiting to be asked in; but Norah gave no such invitation. She went backto her mother triumphant, full of angry delight.

  'I have been perfectly civil to him, mamma! I have taken the greatestcare--I have not avoided him, nor been stiff to him, nor anything. Andhe has tried so hard, so very hard, to have an explanation. Very likely!as if I would listen to any explanation.'

  'How did you avoid it, Norah, if you were neither angry nor stiff?'

  'Katie, mamma, always Katie! I put her between him and me wherever wewent. It was fun,' cried Norah, with eyes that sparkled with revengefulsatisfaction. Her spirits had risen to the highest point. She hadregained her position; she had got the upper hand, which Norah loved.The prospect of the evening which was still before her, in which sheshould wear that prettiest ball-dress, which surely had been made by thefairies, and drag Cyril Rivers at her chariot-wheels, and show himtriumphantly how little it mattered to her, made Norah radiant. Sherushed in to the Haldanes' side of the house to show herself, in thewildest spirits. Mrs Haldane and Miss Jane--wonder of wonders--weregoing too; everybody was to be there. The humble people were asked tobehold and ratify the triumph, as well as the fine people to make it. Asfor Mrs Haldane, she disapproved, and was a great deal more grim thanordinary; but, for once in a way, because it would be a great thing tosee, and
because Mr Baldwin and his sisters were to be there too,--'asmuch out of their proper place as we,' she said, shaking her head,--shehad allowed herself to be persuaded. Miss Jane required no persuading.She was honestly delighted to have a chance of seeing anything--thedresses and the diamonds, and Norah dancing with all the grandees. WhenNorah came in, all in a cloud of tulle and lace, Miss Jane fairlyscreamed with delight. 'I am quite happy to think I shall see the childhave one good dance,' she said, walking round and round the fairyprincess. 'Were you fond of dancing yourself, Miss Jane?' said Norah,not without the laugh of youth over so droll an idea. But it was notdroll to Miss Jane; she put her hands, which were clothed in black withmittens, on the child's shoulders, and gave her a kiss, and answerednot a word. And Stephen looked on from that immovable silent post ofhis, and saw them both, and thought of the past and present, and all theshadowy uncertain days that were to come. How strange to think of thetime when Miss Jane, so grave and prosaic in her old-maidish gown, hadbeen like Norah! How wonderful to think that Norah one day might be asMiss Jane! And so they all went away to the ball together, and Stephenin his chair immovable till his nurses came back, and Susan bustlingabout in the kitchen, were left in the house alone.

  One ball is like another; and except that the Dura ball was moresplendid, more profuse in ornament, gayer in banks of flowers, richer inbeautiful dresses and finery, more ambitious in music, than any ballever known before in the country, there is little that could be said ofit to distinguish it from all others, except, perhaps, the curious factthat the master of the house was not present. He had not been visibleall day. He had been telegraphed for to go to town that morning, and hadnot returned; but then Mr Golden, who was a far more useful man in aball-room than the master of the house, was present, and was doing allthat became a man to make everything go off brilliantly. He was theslave of the young heroine of the feast to whom everybody was payinghomage; and it was remarked by a great many people, that even when goingon the arm of Lord Merewether to open the ball, Clara had a suggestionto whisper to this amateur majordomo. 'He is such an old friend; he isjust the same as papa,' she said to her partner with a passing blush;but then Clara was in uncommonly brilliant looks that evening, even forher. Her beautiful colour kept coming and going; there was an air ofemotion, and almost agitation, about her, which gave a charm to herusually unemotional style of beauty. Lord Merewether, who was under hismother's orders to be 'very attentive,' almost fell in love with Clara,in excess of his instructions, when he noticed this unusual fluctuationof colour and tone. It supplied just what she wanted, and made theRubens into a goddess--or so at least this young man thought.

  But Helen had not been above an hour in this gay scene when a strangerestlessness seized upon her. She did her best to struggle against it;she tried hard to represent to herself that nothing could have happenedat home, no post could have come in since she left it, and that Norahneeded her there. She saw Mr Rivers hovering about with his explanationon his lips trying to get at her, since Norah would have nothing to sayto him; and felt that it was her duty to remain by her child at such amoment. But, after a while, her nerves, or her imagination, or someincomprehensible influence was too much for her. 'You look as if youwould faint,' Mrs Dalton whispered to her. 'Let Mr Dalton take you tothe air--let Charlie get you something; I am sure you are ill.'

  'I am not ill; but I must get home. I am wanted at home,' said Helenwith her brain swimming. How it was that she did it, she never couldtell afterwards; but she managed to retain command of herself, torecommend Norah to Mrs Dalton's care, and finally to steal out; no onenoticing her in the commotion and movement that were always going on.When she got into the open air with her shawl wrapped about her, hersenses came back. It was foolish, it was absurd--but the deed was done;and, though her restlessness calmed down when she stepped out into thecalm of the summer night, it was easier then to go on than to go back;and Norah was in safe hands. It was a moonlight night, as isindispensable for any great gathering in the country. To be sure it wasJuly, and before the guests went home, the short night would be over;but still, according to habit, a moonlight night had been selected. Itwas soft, and warm, and hazy,--the light very mellow, and not overbright,--the scent of the flowers and the glitter of the dew filling theair. There was so much moon, and so much light from the house, thatHelen was not afraid of the dark avenue. She went on, relieved of heranxiety, feeling refreshed and eased, she could not tell how, by theblowing of the scented night-air in her face. But before she reached theshade of the avenue, some one rushed across the lawn after her. Sheturned half round to see who it was, thinking that perhaps Charlie or MrDalton had hurried after her to accompany her home. The figure, however,was not that of either. The man came hurriedly up to her, saying, in alow but earnest tone, 'Mrs Burton, don't take any rash step,' when she,as well as he, suddenly started. The voice informed her who spoke, andthe sight of her upturned face in the moonlight informed him wholistened. 'Mrs Drummond!' he exclaimed. They had not met face to face,nor exchanged words since the time when she denounced him in thepresence of Cyril Rivers in St Mary's Road. 'Mrs Drummond,' he repeated,with an uneasy laugh; 'of all times in the world for you and me tomeet!'

  'I hope there is no reason why we should meet,' said Helen impetuously.'I am going away. There can be nothing that wants saying between you andme.'

  'But, by Jove, there is though,' he said; 'there is reason enough, I cantell you--such news as will make the hair stand upright on your head.Ah! they say revenge is sweet. I shall leave you to find it outto-morrow when everybody knows.'

  'What is it?' she asked breathlessly, and then stopped, and went on afew steps, horrified at the thought of thus asking information from theman she hated most. He went on along with her, saying nothing. He had nohat on, and the rose in his coat showed a little gleam of colour in thewhitening of the light.

  'You ought to ask me, Mrs Drummond,' he said; 'for revenge, they say, issweet, and you would be glad to hear.'

  'I want no revenge,' she said hurriedly; and they entered the gloom ofthe avenue side by side, the strangest pair. Her heart began to beat andflutter--she could not tell why; for she feared nothing from him; andall at once there rose up a gleam of secret triumph in her. This manbelieved that Robert Drummond was dead, knew no better. What did shecare for his news? if indeed she were to tell him hers!

  'Well,' he said, after an interval, 'I see you are resolved not to ask,so I will tell you. I have my revenge in it too, Mrs Drummond; thisnight, when they are all dancing, Burton is off, with the police afterhim. It will be known to all the world to-morrow. You ought to begrateful to me for telling you that.'

  'Burton is off!--the police--after him!' She did not take in the meaningof the words.

  'You don't believe me, perhaps--neither did his wife just now; or atleast so she pretended; but it is true. There was a time when he left meto bear the brunt, now it is his turn; and there is a ball at his housethe same night!'

  She interrupted him hurriedly. 'I don't know what you mean. I cannotbelieve you. What has he done?' she said.

  Mr Golden laughed; and in the stillness his laugh sounded strangelyechoing among the trees. He turned round on his heel, waving his hand toher. 'Only what all the rest of us have done,' he said. 'Good night; Iam wanted at the ball. I have a great deal to do to-night.'

  She stood for a moment where he had left her, wondering, half paralysed.And then she turned and went slowly down the avenue. She felt herselfshake and tremble--she could not tell why. Was it this man's voice? Wasit his laugh that sounded like something infernal? And what did it allmean? Helen, who was a brave woman by nature, felt a flutter of fear asshe quickened her steps and went on. A ball at his house--the policeafter him. What did it mean? The silence of the long leafy road was sostrange and deep after all the sound and movements; the music pursuedher from behind, growing fainter and fainter as she went on; the worldseemed to be all asleep, except that part of it which was making merry,dancing, and rejoicing at Dura. And n
ow the eagerness to get homesuddenly seized upon her again,--something must have happened since sheleft; some letter; perhaps--some one--come back.

  When she got within sight of the Gatehouse, the moon was shining rightdown the village street as it did when it was at the full. All wasquiet, silent, asleep. No, not all. Opposite her house, against theRectory gates, two men were standing. As she went up into the shadow ofthe lime-trees, and rang the bell at her own door, one of them crossedthe road, and came up to her touching his hat. 'Asking your pardon,ma'am,' he said, 'there is some one in your house, if you're the lady ofthis house, as oughtn't to be there.'

  A thrill of great terror took possession of Helen. Her heart leapt toher mouth. 'I don't understand you. Who are you? And what do you want?'she asked, almost gasping for breath.

  'I'm a member of the detective force. I ain't ashamed of my business,'said the man. 'We seen him go in, me and my mate. With your permission,ma'am, we'd like to go through the house.'

  'Go through my house at this hour!' cried Helen. She heard the dooropened behind her, but did not turn round. She was the guardian of thehouse, she alone, and of all who were in it, be they who they might. Herwits seemed to come to her all at once, as if she had found them gropingin the dark. 'Have you any authority to go into my house? Am I obligedto let you in? Have you a warrant?'

  'They've been a worriting already, ma'am, and you out,' said Susan'svoice from behind. 'What business have they, I'd like to know, in alady's house at this hour of the night?'

  'Has any one come, Susan?' Helen said.

  'Not a soul.'

  She was standing with a candle in her hand, holding the door half open.The night air puffed the flame; and perhaps it was that too that madethe shadow of Susan's cap tremble upon the panel of the door.

  'I cannot possibly admit you at this hour,' said Mrs Drummond.'To-morrow, if you come with any authority; but not to-night.'

  She went into her own house, and closed the door. How still it was anddark, with Susan's candle only flickering through the gloom! And thenSusan made a sudden clutch at her mistress's arm. She held the candledown to Helen's face, and peered into it, 'I've atook him into my ownroom,' she said.