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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER XIII.

  This was the end of Mr Burton of Dura--Mr Burton, of the great Cityfirm, he who had been known as one of the greatest of commercialmagnitudes, he who had ruined as many people as if he had been anemperor. For some time there was a very great deal about it in thenewspapers, and his concerns were exposed to the light of day. Heinvolved many others with him in his downfall, and some in his shame. Ifhe had been taken, he would have joined in prison those men whom in ourown day we have seen degraded from a high position in society down tothe picking of oakum in gaol--men whom we all pour our loathing upon atthe moment of their discovery, but of whom we say 'poor souls!' a fewmonths after, when some clever newspaper correspondent has a peep atthem, disguised in the prison garb, and known as numbers 300 and 301.Burton missed the prison and the pity; but he did not miss thepunishment. In spite of various attempts that were made to stop it, theinvestigation of his affairs was very full and clear. It became apparentfrom his own private books, and that one of Rivers's which had beenfound in his safe, that the bank had been in reality all but ruined whenit was made into a joint-stock company. Burton and his colleague hadguaranteed the debts, and put the best face possible upon thingsgenerally; and Mr Golden's management, and an unexpected run of goodluck, had all but carried the labouring concern into clear water. It wasat this period that Burton, thanking his stars or his gods, withdrewfrom the share in the management which he had held nominally, and leftit to Golden to complete the triumph of daring and good fortune. Howthis failed is already known to the reader. The mystery of the lostbooks was never cleared up; for Golden was out of the way, enjoying hishoneymoon, when the private affairs of the other conspirator were thusthrown open to the light of day. But there was enough in the one bookfound among Mr Burton's to show how very inconvenient to him the findingof the others would have been. Thus daylight blazed upon all thosetortuous, gloomy paths, and showed how the desire of self-interestguided the man through them, with an absolute indifference to theinterests of others. He had not meant any harm, as he said; he had meanthis own gain in the first place, his own recovery when his position wasthreatened, his own safety when danger came. He had not set out with adeliberate intention of ruining others; but this is a thing which nobodyever does; and he had not cared afterwards how many were ruined, so thathe could hold on his way. Such cases happen now and then, and humanjustice cannot touch them; but most generally Nemesis comes sooner orlater. Even at the worst, however, his material punishment was never sohard as that of some of his victims. The loss of the trust-money, whichhad been the immediate cause of his ruin, took the very bread out of themouths of a family of orphans; but Mr Burton, at the lowest depths ofhis humiliation, had always bread enough, and to spare. He was nevereven thrown into such mental anxiety, such stress of painfulcalculation, as that into which the inhabitants of the Gatehouse werecast by his downfall. Miss Jane went painfully all over Dura, looking atthe cottages, to see if by any means something could be found orcontrived to suit Stephen; and her heart sank within her as sheinspected the damp, low-roofed places, which were so very differentfrom the warm old wainscoted rooms, the comfort of the Gatehouse. Whenthe property was sold, however, it was found that the Gatehouse had beenmade into a separate lot, and had been bought, not by the richdescendant of the old Harcourts who had got Dura, but by some one whosename was unknown.

  'Somebody who is going to live in the house himself, no doubt,' MissJane said, with a very long face; 'and I am sure I wish him well in it,whoever he may be,' she added with a struggle. 'But oh, Norah! what athing it will be for us to go away!'

  'If I knew him, I would go to him, and beg for your rooms for you. Henever would have the heart to turn you out, if he was a good man,' criedNorah. 'For us it does not matter; but oh, Miss Jane, for you!'

  'It cannot be helped, my dear,' said Miss Jane, drying her eyes. 'Wehave no right to it, you know. It does seem hard that we should beruined by his prosperity, and then, as it were ruined again by hisdownfall. It seems hard; but it is not anybody's fault. Of course whenwe accepted it we knew the penalty. He might have turned us out at anytime. No, Norah; we have no reason to complain.'

  'That makes it worse,' cried impulsive Norah. 'It is always a comfortwhen one can think it is somebody's fault. And so it is--Mr Burton'sfault. Oh, how much harm he has done! Oh, what a destroyer he has been!He has done as much harm as a war or a pestilence,' cried Norah. 'Thinkof poor--papa!'

  She had always to make a pause before that name, not believing in itsomehow, feeling it hurt her. By this time she had heard all about themeeting between her father and mother, and the day had been fixed whenshe was to join them; but still she had a sore, wounding, jealous sensethat the new father was her rival--that he might be almost her enemy.Fathers on the whole seemed but an equivocal advantage to Norah. Therewas Mr Burton, who had ruined and shamed every one connected with him;and there was poor--papa, who might, for anything she knew, take all thegladness out of her own life.

  'Oh, hush, my dear!' said Miss Jane. 'Mr Burton has been a bitteracquaintance to us; but he is Ned's father, and we must not complain.'

  Just then there was a knock at the door, and Ned himself came in. Hecame from town, as he did often, to spend the evening with hisbetrothed. Their days were running very short now, and their prospectswere not encouraging. He had not even time to look for any employmentfor himself, so much was he occupied with his father's affairs; andNorah was going away, and when should they meet again? These eveningswhich they spent together were very sweet; but they were growing dailysadder as they approached more closely to the shadow of the farewell.But this time Ned came in with a flush of pleasure in his face. His eyeswere so brightened by it, and his colour so much improved, that helooked 'quite handsome,' Miss Jane thought; and he walked in withsomething of the impulsive satisfaction of old days.

  'My grandfather is a brick,' he said, 'after all. He has given me myfortune. He has helped me to do something I had set my heart on. MissJane, don't think any more of leaving the Gatehouse. So long as I livenobody can turn you out.'

  'What do you mean, Ned?'

  'I mean that dear old grandpapa has been awfully good to me,' said Ned,'and the Gatehouse is mine. I love it, Miss Jane. Don't you sayanything. You may think it will be bitter for me to come here after allthat has passed; but I love it. Since ever I was a boy, I have thoughtthis room the dearest place in the world--ever since Norah sat andtalked rubbish, and frightened me out of my life. How well I rememberthat! She has forgotten years ago! but I shall never forget. What areyou crying about, Miss Jane? Now this is very hard upon a fellow, I mustsay. I thought it was good news.'

  'And so it is--blessed news, you dear, dear, kind boy!' cried Miss Jane.'Oh, children! what can I say to you? God bless you! And God will blessyou for thinking of the afflicted first, before yourselves.'

  'I had nothing to do with it--I knew nothing about it,' cried Norahproudly; and all at once, without any warning, she threw herself uponNed, and gave him a sudden kiss on his brown cheek. For five minutesafter none of the three were very coherent; for to do a good action whenyou are young makes you feel very foolish, and ready to cry with any onewho cares to cry. Ned told them all about it between laughing andsobbing--how his grandfather had given him his portion, and how it wasthe best possible investment to buy the Gatehouse. 'For you see,' saidNed, 'when Norah makes up her mind to marry, we shall have a house allready. As for everybody here knowing what has happened, everybody allover the country knows,' he added, with a hot flush on his cheek; 'andat Dura people like me--a little, and would not be unkind, as in otherplaces. And how could I let the place Norah had been brought up in--theplace I love--go to other people? So, Miss Jane, be happy, and set yourbrother's mind at rest. Nobody shall disturb you here as long as I live;and if I should die, it would go to Norah.'

  'Oh, Ned, hush!' cried Norah, putting up her hand to his lip.

  And then they went out into the garden, and wandered about and talked.Nothing but this inno
cent and close association, with no one to think itmight be improper or to call them to account, could have made exactlysuch a bond as that which existed between these two innocent youngsouls. They were lovers, and yet they were half brother and sister. Theytalked of their plans with the wistful certainty and uncertainty ofthose who feel that another will may come in to shatter all theirpurposes, though in themselves they are so unalterable and sure. Therewas this always hanging over them, like the sword in the fable, of whichthey were conscious, though they would not say a word about it. To-nighttheir spirits were raised. The fact that this familiar place was_theirs_, that Ned was actually its master, that here they might spendtheir days together as man and wife, exhilarated them into childishdelight.

  'I always think of you as in that room,' he said to her, 'when I picturemy Norah to myself; and there is never half an hour all day long that Idon't do that. I always see the old curtains and the funny oldfurniture. And to think it is ours, Norah, and that we shall grow oldhere, too!'

  'I never mean to grow old,' said Norah. 'Fancy, Ned, mamma is not old,and she is nineteen years older than me. Nineteen years--twenty years!It is as good as a century; it will never come to an end!'

  'Or if it does come to an end,' said wise Ned, in the additionaldiscretion of two years' additional age, 'at least we shall have had ourday.'

  With this chastened yet delightful consciousness of the life before themthey parted that evening. But next time they met Ned was not equallybright. He had been very sorely tried by the newspapers, by the shame hehad to bear, by the looks askance which were bestowed on 'Burton's son.'

  'I never shall be able to stay there,' he said, pouring out his troubledheart to Norah. 'I cannot bear it. Fancy having to hear one's fatherinsulted, and not being able to say a word. I cannot do it; oh, Norah,I cannot! We must give up the thought of living here. I must go abroad.'

  'Where, Ned?'

  'Oh, I don't know. America, Australia--anywhere. I cannot stay here.Anywhere that I can earn my bread.'

  'Ned,' said Norah, her happy voice all tuned to tones of weeping,'remember I am mamma's only child. She has got--some one else now; but,after all, I am her only child.'

  'Do you think I forget that?' he said. 'It is because I am afraid,because I feel, they will never, never trust you to me--so useless as Iam--my father's son. Oh, Norah, when I think it all over, my heart islike to break!'

  'But, Ned, you were in such good spirits last night.'

  'Ah, but last night was different. My own Norah! if they said no, dear,if they were angry--Oh, Norah! don't hate me for saying it--what wouldyou do?'

  'What could I do?' she said, with her brown eyes blazing, half inindignation, half in resolution. 'And what do you think they are madeof, Ned, to dare to say such a thing to me? Was mamma ever cruel? Iwould do just what I will do now; I would say, 'Ned, please don't! dearNed, don't!' But if you would, notwithstanding all I said to you, ofcourse I must go too.'

  'My own Norah! But now they are going to take you away from me, andwhen, when shall I see you again?'

  'People go to St Malo by the boat,' said Norah demurely. 'It sails fromSouthampton, and it gets there in I don't remember how many hours. Thereis nothing against people going to St Malo that want to go.'

  And thus once more the evening had a more cheerful termination. But noneof the party were cheerful when Norah picked up all her littlebelongings, and went up to town to Dr Maurice who was to be her escort.Probably, of all the party, she herself was the most cheerful; for shewas the one who was going away to novelties which could not but be moreor less agreeable to her imagination, while the others, in the blank oftheir daily unchanging existence, were left behind. Miss Jane cried overher, Mrs Haldane bade God bless her, and as for Stephen, he drew herclose to him, and could not speak.

  'I don't know what life will be worth, Norah, without your mother andyou,' he said, looking up to her at last with the patient smile he hadworn since ever Norah could remember--the one thing in the world whichwas more pathetic than sorrow itself; for he loved Helen, and missed herto the bottom of his heart--loved her as a disabled, shipwrecked man maylove a woman altogether out of his reach, most purely, most truly,without hope or thought of any return--but as no man may justly love awoman who has her husband by her side. This visionary difference, whichis yet so real, Stephen felt, and it made him very sad; and the loss ofthe child gave him full warrant to look as sad as he felt.

  'But, oh, Stephen! let us not complain,' said Mrs Haldane; 'for has itnot been shown to us beyond all question that everything is for thebest.'

  All for the best! All that had happened--Mr Burton's ruin, the tragicaloverthrow of his family, the destruction of poor Ned's hopes andprospects, the shame and humiliation and misery--had all been so'overruled,' as Mrs Haldane would have said, that their house was morefirmly secured to them than ever, and was theirs, most likely, as longas Stephen lived! It was a small matter to be procured at such a cost;but yet it was a satisfaction to her to feel that so many laws had beenoverthrown on her account, and that all was for the best.

  As for Ned's parting with Norah, it is a thing which must not be spokenof. It took place in the cab in which her young lover conveyed her fromthe station to Dr Maurice's door. Ah, what rending of the young heartsthere was as they tore themselves asunder! What big, hollow eyes, withthe tears forced back from them, what gulps of choking sorrow swalloweddown, as Ned, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, stalkedaway from Dr Maurice's door!

  To tell the truth, Dr Maurice himself was not very comfortable either.He had got a great fright, and he had not recovered it. His brain wasstill confused; he felt as if he had been beaten about the head; a dull,hot colour dwelt upon his cheeks. He tried to explain to himself that hewas feverish; but he was not feverish--or at least it was only his mind,not his body, which was so. It was partly wonder, but chiefly it wasfright, on account of his own marvellous and hairbreadth escape. At thetime when he had made that proposal to Helen, he believed, as she did,and everybody else, that her husband had died years ago. And, goodheavens! what if she had not refused? Dr Maurice grew hot and cold allover, he actually shuddered, at the supposition. And yet such a thingmight have happened. He went reluctantly, yet with curiosity, to see hisold friend. He wondered with a confused and troubled mind whether Helenwould have said anything about it--whether Drummond would take anynotice of it. The doctor was impatient with Drummond, and dissatisfiedaltogether as to his conduct. A man, he reflected, cannot do that sortof thing with impunity. To be for seven years as though he had neverbeen, and then to come to life again and interfere with everybody'saffairs! It was hard. Drummond had got his full share of sympathy; hehad turned his whole world upside down. Seven years ago he had beenmourned for as few men are mourned; and now it was a mistake, it wasalmost an impertinence, that he should come to life again, as if nothinghad happened. But nevertheless Dr Maurice volunteered to take Norah toSt Malo. He was glad to do it--to rub out the recollection of that falsestep of his--to show that he bore no malice, and that no thoughts werein his mind which were inconsistent with his old friendship for Robertand respect for Robert's wife.

  Robert's wife! She had called herself so when she was but Robert'swidow. But nobody understood, nobody thought, what a change it was toHelen to fish up her old existence again, and resume its habits as ifthere had been no break in it. Love had conquered the strangeness atfirst; but there were so many strangenesses to be conquered. She hadfallen into so different a channel from that into which his thoughts hadbeen diverted. They were both unchanged in their affections; but howdifferent in everything else! They were each other's nearest, closest,dearest; and yet they had to make acquaintance with each other overagain. Nothing can be more strange than such a close union, accompaniedby such a total ignorance. It was not even as if Helen had remained ashe had known her--had received no new influences into her life. Both hadan existence unknown to the other. Robert in the joy of his recoveredidentity, in the happiness of fin
ding that there was still love andcompanionship for him in the world, took the reunion more simply thanHelen did, and ignored its difficulties, or did not feel them. He hadalways taken things more simply than she. His absolute faith in her, hissimple delight in finding her, his fond admiration of her, revived inHelen some of her old feelings of suppressed wonder and half doubt. Butthat doubt was humbler now than it had been once. In the old life aghost of impatience had been in her; she had doubted his powers, andchafed at his failures. Now she began to doubt whether she had everunderstood him--whether she had done him justice. For once, at least,Robert had risen to that height of power which passion sometimes forcesalmost beyond the reach of genius. He had made alive and put upon a deadpiece of canvas, for all the world to see, one face which was arevelation out of the worlds unknown. Helen's heart had never wanted anyadditional bond to the husband whom she had chosen and clung to throughgood and evil; but her mind had wanted something more than his easytalent, his exquisite skill, the gentle, modest pitch of imaginationwhich was all that common life moved him to. But on that point she wassatisfied now. The only drawback was, she was no longer sure that it wasRobert. He was himself, and yet another. He was her own by a hundredtender signs and sureties; and yet he was strange to her--strange!

  And it was thus, with a suppressed excitement, which neither told, thatthe re-united pair awaited their child's coming. She breathless withcuriosity and anxiety to know what Norah would think of her unknownfather; he eager to make acquaintance with the new creature whom he knewonly as a child. 'The child' he called her, till Helen smiled at hispertinacity, and ceased to remind him that Norah was no longer a child.Their excitement rose very high when the steamboat came in. Helen'sfeelings were, as usual, by far the most complicated. Norah was her owncreation, if we may say so, framed by her, cultivated by her--not onlyflesh of her flesh, but heart of her heart, and mind of her mind; yetthe influence of Norah's opinions, Norah's ways of thinking, was strongupon her mother, almost more strong than Helen's were on Norah; for thelatter had all the confidence of youth, the former all the hesitation ofmiddle age. What if Norah should not 'take to' the new father--thestranger who yet was so truly her own Robert of old? Neither the one northe other even so much as recollected Dr Maurice--the poor man who wasbracing up his courage to meet them, wondering what they might think.And they thought of him simply not at all.

  And Norah approached that rocky shore with an unconcealable, almostavowed, jealousy of her father. A shade of that emotion, half shame,half pain, with which a young woman regards her mother's secondmarriage was in her mind. It was a partial desecration of her idea ofher mother, and she was jealous of the new companion who naturally mustbe more to Helen than even she herself could be. She was jealous, thoughshe had long given her mother a rival more dangerous still in Ned; butin such feelings no one is reasonable. Dr Maurice had stolen into herconfidence, she knew not how, and, partly out of pure perversity, wasvery strenuous in Ned's favour, and had promised to plead his cause. Thewretched man was almost glad that there should be this new complicationcoming along with Norah, to perplex from the very beginning her father'srelations with her. Had things been as he once hoped--had he been ableto make Norah his own child, as he had tried to do--then he would haveresisted Ned to his last gasp; but as she was not his, he was wickedlyglad that she should not be altogether Robert's, but that from the firsthis should be but a divided proprietorship.

  'I will do what I can to make things easy for you, Norah,' he said, asthey drew near St Malo, half out of love, half out of spite. 'I willgive you what I meant to leave you, and that should get over part of thedifficulty.'

  'Oh, Dr Maurice, you have always been so good to me!' cried heedlessNorah. 'If it had been you instead of papa----'

  She was angry with herself when she had made that foolish, hasty speech;but, oh! how sweet it was to her companion! What balm it shed upon thoseawkward sorenesses of his! He drew her hand through his arm, and bentover her with the tenderest looks.

  'It would be strange if I did not do my best for my little Norah,' hesaid, with something like a tear in his eye. Hypocrite! If she had beenhis little Norah, then heaven have mercy upon poor Ned!

  They landed, and there was all the flutter and agitation of meeting,which was more confusing, more agitating, than meetings generally are,though these are always hard enough to manage. They went together acrossthe bay to the little cottage on the cliff. They took a long time tosettle down. Robert hung about his child as if she had been a new toy,unable to keep from gazing at her, touching her, recalling what she usedto be, glorying and rejoicing over the possession of her; while Helen,on her side, watched too with a painful closeness, reading the thoughtsin Norah's eyes before they had come. She wanted to jump into certaintyat once. But they had to eat, and drink, and rest; they had to talk ofall that had happened--of all that might yet happen. And so the firstdays passed, and the family unconsciously re-united itself, and theextraordinary sank, no one knowing how, into the blessed calm of everyday.

  And then there occurred an event which took all the company by surprise:Norah fell in love with her father. She 'took to' him as a girl might beexpected to take to a man whose image she was. She was more like him agreat deal than she was like her mother. Her hasty, impulsive ways, herfresh simplicity of soul, were all his. She had been thought to resembleher mother before; but when she was by her father's side, it wasapparent in a moment whom she most resembled. She discovered it herselfwith a glow of delight. 'Why, mamma, he is like me!' she cried, with adelightful youthful reversal of the fact. And poor Helen did not quitelike it. It is terrible, but it is true--for the first moment it gaveher a pang. The child had been all hers; she had almost ceased toremember that there could be any sharing of her. She had been anxiousabout Norah's reception of her father; but she was not quite preparedfor this. Dr Maurice, for his part, was simply furious, and went asnear to hating Robert Drummond as it was possible to do; but then, ofcourse, that feeling on Maurice's part was simply ludicrous, anddeserved nothing but to be laughed at. This curious event made the mosttragi-comic convulsion in the cottage on the cliff.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  And now all the threads are shortening in the shuttle, and the web isnearly woven out. If any one has ever supposed for a moment that RobertDrummond and his wife would make a last appearance as cruel parents,interfering with their daughter's happiness, it does not say much forthe historian's success in elucidating their characters. If Norah hadwanted to marry a bad man, they would no doubt have made a terriblestand, and made themselves very unhappy; but when it was only their ownprejudices, and poverty, and other external disadvantages that had to betaken into account, nothing but the forecasting imagination of two timidlovers could have feared for the result. When two people have themselvesmarried upon nothing, it is so much more easy for them to see how thatcan be managed over again; and, heaven save you, good people! so many ofus used to marry upon nothing in the old days.

  But a great deal had to happen before this could come to pass. TheDrummonds went home to England late in the autumn, and Robert wasreceived back by the world with such acclamations as perhaps have notgreeted a man of his profession in England for ages. Of itself thepicture of 'Dives' had made a great impression upon the general mind;but when his strange story became public, and it was known that thepicture of the year had been painted by a man risen, as it were, out ofthe grave, warmer still became the interest in it. The largest sum whichhad been given for a picture for years was offered for this to theresuscitated painter. Helen, always visionary, revolted from the verythought of selling this picture, which had been the link between herselfand her husband, and which had so many associations to them both; butRobert had too much practical good sense to yield to this romanticdifficulty. 'I am no longer Dives,' he said, as he drew his wife's armthrough his own, and took her out with him to conclude the bargain. Itincreased the income which Robert's American gains brought him, and madethem a great deal more comfortable. But Helen would ne
ver visit at thegreat house where 'Dives' was, and she would have given half her livingto have possessed the greatest work her husband ever produced--the onlyone by which, all the critics said, he would be known to posterity. Thiswas one of the disappointments of her new life, and it was without doubtan unreasonable disappointment, as so many are that sting us mostdeeply. The Drummonds were so fortunate, after some waiting andbargaining, as to secure their old house in St Mary's Road, with thestudio in which such happy and such terrible hours had been passed. Itwas beyond their means; but yet they made an effort to purchase thispleasure for themselves. And here for two years the family livedtogether unbroken. Now and then they went to the Gatehouse, and made thehearts of the Haldanes glad. And painters would throng about the studio,and the old life came back as if it had never had a break. By timesHelen would sit in the familiar room, and ask herself was it _now_--thepresent--or was it the past which had come back? The difference was,there was no child curled against the window, with brown hair about hershoulders, and a book in her arms, but only that slim, fair, brown-eyedmaiden, who wore a ring of betrothal upon her finger, and had thoughtswhich travelled far by times after her distant lover; and that themaster of the house, when he came into the room, was not thelight-footed, youthful-browed Robert of old, but a white-haired man,growing old before his time. These were the changes; but everything elsewas unchanged.

  Robert Drummond, however, never painted another picture like that'Dives;' it was the one passion flower, the single great blossom, of hislife. He painted other pictures as he used to do, which were goodDrummonds, specimens of that master which the picture-dealers were verywilling to have and collectors to add to their treasures, but whichbelonged to a world altogether distinct from the other. This Helen felttoo with a gentle pang, but not as she had felt it of old. Once he hadrisen above that pleasant, charming level of beautiful mediocrity; oncehe had painted, not in common pigments, but in colours mixed with tearsand life-blood. At such a cost even she was glad that no more greatworks should be produced. She was satisfied; her craving for genius andfame had once been fed, almost at the cost of their lives; and now shewas content to descend to the gentler, lower work--the work by which menearn their daily bread.

  Ah! but even then, even now, had it been--not Raphael, perhaps, who wasone of the Shaksperian men, without passion, who do the work of gods asif they were the humanest, commonest of labourers--but such a fiery soulas that of Michelangelo whom this woman had mated! But it was not so.She could have understood the imperfection which is full of genius; whatshe was slow to understand was the perfection in which no genius was.But she was calmed and changed by all she had gone through, and hadlearned how dearly such excellence may be bought, and that life is toofeeble to bear so vast a strain. Accordingly, fortified and consoled bythe one gleam of glory which had crowned his brows, Helen smiled uponher painter, and took pleasure in his work, even when it ceased to beglorious. That was over; but the dear common life--the quiet, blessedroutine of every day--that ordinary existence, with love to lighten it,and work to burden it, and care and pleasure intermingled, which, apartfrom the great bursts of passion and sorrow and delight that come infrom time to time, is the best blessing God gives to man--that had comeback, and was here in all its fulness, in perfect fellowship andcontent.

  Norah lived at home with her parents for two years--the reason of whichwas, not that they objected to poor Ned, but that Ned was so sick atheart with all that he had suffered, that he was not capable of settlingdown to such work as could be procured for him in England. He was'Burton's son;' and though even the people who looked cold at him onaccount of his parentage would soon have forgotten it, Ned himself couldnot forget. There was even a moment of despair in which he had declaredthat he would not share his disgrace with the girl he loved, but wouldcarry it with him to his grave as soon as might be, and trouble no oneany more. This state of mind alarmed Norah dreadfully, but it did notalarm the more experienced persons, who were aware that the mind atone-and-twenty has a great many vagaries, and is not always to be takenat its word. The despair came to a sudden end when Ned found himselfsuddenly appointed to a vice-consulship in an Italian seaport, where hischief made him do all the work, and where he received very little of thepay. When this serious moment came, and life had to be fairly looked inthe face, Ned came to himself--he became a reasonable creature. Ofcourse, after his despair, his first idea was to be married instantly;but finally he consented to wait until something better--something theycould live on--could be procured for him. He bore his banishmentvaliantly, and so did Norah. And it did him good; he began to forgetthat he was 'Burton's son;' the whole terrible story began to steal outof his mind with that blessed facility which belongs to youth. His skybrightened from those early clouds; his mind, which was a very good,clear, capable intelligence, developed and strengthened; and finally,the exertions of his mother and grandfather, and those of Drummond, whohad some influence too among great people who were lovers of art,procured him an appointment at home. Ned would have nothing to do withbusiness; he shuddered at the very name of it, and rejected the planshis kind grandfather had formed for him with a repugnance which wasalmost horror. Mr Baldwin did not understand how the boy could be sofoolish; but his mother understood, and subdued all opposition. Insteadof taking his chance, therefore, of commerce, with the hope of becomingin his turn a millionnaire, Ned made himself very happy in the publicservice on a few hundreds a year. If he lived long enough, and nobodywas promoted over him, and nothing happened to him or the office, thechances were that after thirty years or so he might find himself inenjoyment of a thousand a year. And all the family said to each other,'That is very good, you know, for a young man without much interest,'and congratulated Ned as if he had the thousand a year already which wasthirty years off, and subject to all the chances of good and evilfortune, of economical ministers, and those public crises which demandthe sacrifice of junior clerks. But notwithstanding all these drawbacks,Ned was very happy in his new appointment, and his marriage day drewnigh.

  Mrs Burton had lived for some time with her father and her aunts atClapham--as long, indeed, as she could bear it; then she took a littlehouse in town. She had given up half of her settlement to her husband'screditors; and whether she measured her sacrifice by her own knowledgeof human nature, or did it simply in the revulsion of her heart, afterNed's careless reception of the larger offering which she was willing tohave made for him--certain it is that she got much more honour from herpublic renunciation of the half than she would have done had she let thewhole go as she once intended. Her magnanimity was in all the papers,and everybody commended the modest, unexaggerated sacrifice. And she hadstill a very good income of her own, derived from the half she retained.Her life in London, she thought, was happier than at Clapham. Yet,perhaps, a doubt may be entertained on this subject; for a life solimited was hard to her, however luxurious it might be. She did not carefor luxuries; but she did care to watch the secret movements of life, topenetrate the secrets of human machinery, to note how men met thedifferent emergencies of their existence. She gathered a little societyround her who were as fond of this pursuit as herself; but unless theycould have provided themselves with cases on which to operate, thisassociation could not do them much good, and it was dry fare to bedriven to scrutinising each other. She thought she was happier in hertiny house in Mayfair, where she kept three maids and a man, and wasextremely comfortable; but I believe that in reality her time of highestenjoyment was also her time of greatest suffering, when she was rulingher own little world at Dura, and seeing her house tumble to pieces, andholding out against fate. She had had a chance for a moment of a betterlife when her son came back, and touched with a careless, passing handthose chords of her heart which had never vibrated before. But the touchwas careless, momentary. Before that vibration had done more than thrillthrough her, the thoughtless hand was lifted, and the opportunity over,and Mrs Burton, with her soft cynic smile, her perfect toleration forthe wants and weaknesses of humanity,
her self-contained andself-sufficing character, had returned to herself. She was proud, veryproud, in her way, and she was never betrayed into such weakness again.Which was to blame, the mother or the son, it would be hard to say; andyet Ned could hardly be blamed for failing to perceive an opportunitywhich he never guessed at nor dreamed of. Some exceptionally sympatheticnatures might perhaps by instinct have felt the power that had been putinto their hands; but it is impossible to say that he was to blame fornot feeling it. Of all human creatures in this chilly universe, Nedremained the one who most deeply interested his mother. She made noopposition to his marriage; she even made a distinct effort to like andto attract Norah, who on her side did her best to be affectionate andfilial to the woman whose cold gentleness and softness of manner were sounlike her own. It was an experiment which mutually could not be said tohave failed. They were always, as people say, on the best of terms; butso far as any real _rapprochement_ went, it cannot be said that itsucceeded. Ned's life, however, such as it was, was the one point in herfamily to which Mrs Burton could turn without that emotion ofcalmly-observant contempt--if the sentiment could be described asanything so decided or warm as contempt--with which she regarded humannature in general. Her husband, when he reached America, at once wrotehome to claim a share in the income secured by her settlement, which sheaccorded him without hesitation, moved by a certain gentle, unexpresseddisdain. He received his allowance, as she termed it, or his share, ashe called it, with unfailing regularity, and made a hundred ventureswith it in the new field of speculation he had entered on with varyingsuccess. He gained money and he lost it as he moved about from one townto another; and sometimes in his letters he would tell her of hissuccesses--successes which made her smile. It was his nature, just as itwas Mr Baldwin's nature to take the chair at meetings, to devote himselfto the interests of the denomination. The one tendency was no moreelevated than the other, when you came to look into them, the student ofhuman nature thought. Perhaps, on the whole, the commercial gambling ona small scale which now occupied the ruined merchant was more honestthan the other; for Burton thought of nothing but his own profit orgain, whereas Mr Baldwin thought he was doing God a service. But thiswas not a comparison for a daughter, for a wife, to make.

  And then Clara came back from her southern villa, a young mother, with ahusband who was no longer her lover, and of whom she had become awarethat he was growing old. The villa was situated on the shores of theloveliest sea, in the most beautiful climate in the world; but Claratired of it, and found it dull, and with her dulness bored her husbandso that his life became a burden to him. He brought her home at herurgent desire, with her baby, and they lived about in London for a shorttime, now in an hotel, now in a lodging, till it occurred to Clara thatit was her duty to go and live near 'dear grandpapa,' and delight hisold age with the fourth generation of his descendants. It suited hervery well for a time. 'Dear grandpapa' was abject to her; her auntsbecame slaves to herself and her baby; she became the centre of alltheir thoughts and plans. Clary, who loved all pleasant things, and towhom luxury and ease were life, made herself at home at Clapham; and MrGolden relieved her of his presence, paid visits here and there, livedat his club--which, strangely enough, had not expelled him--andreturned to all the delights of his old bachelor life. What was to bethe final end of it was hard to prophesy; but already Clary had begun tobe bored at Clapham, and to make scenes with her husband when he paidher his unfrequent visits. And this was the love-match so romanticallymade! Clary, amid all her jealousies and all her dulness, kept so firm ahold upon the rich old people who could not live for ever, and who couldrestore her at their death, if they so pleased, to much of her oldsplendour, that her mother derived a certain painful amusement from thisnew manifestation of her life. Amusement, I cannot deny,--and painful, Ihope; seeing that the creature who thus showed forth to her once againthe poor motives and self-seeking of humanity was her only daughter. Butwith such evidences before her eyes of what human nature could be, wasit wonderful that Mrs Burton should stand more and more by herself, andharden day by day into a colder toleration, a more disdainfulacquiescence in the evils she could not fight against. What was the goodof fighting against them? What could she do but render herself extremelyunhappy, and spoil the comfort of others without doing them any good? Itwas not their fault; they were acting according to their nature. ThusMrs Burton's philosophy grew, and thus she spent her diminished life.

  It was in the midst of all these varied circumstances that the joy-bellsrang for Norah's wedding. Mrs Burton did not go; for even her philosophywas not equal to the sight of Dura, where, according to the wish of bothbride and bridegroom, the bridal was; but Clara, eager in the dulness ofClapham for any change, was present in a toilet which filled her auntswith compunction, yet admiration, and which one of them had beenwheedled into giving her. Clara took great state upon her as the matron,the only one of the party who had attained that glory, though she wasthe youngest, as she reminded them all. 'But if I don't do better thanClary has done, I hope I shall never marry at all,' Katie Dalton criedwith natural indignation. The pretty procession went out of theGatehouse on foot to the church behind the trees, where Norah, as shesaid, had been 'brought up,' and where Mr Dalton blessed the young pair,while his kind wife stood holding Helen's hand and crying softly, as itwere, under her breath. Helen herself did not cry; and Norah's tearscame amid such an April shining of happiness, that no one could objectto them. The whole village came out to watch the pair whom the wholevillage knew. A certain tenderness of respect, such as the crowd seldomshows, was in the salutations Dura gave to the son of the ruined man whohad so long reigned among them. No one could remember, not the mosttenacious rural memory, an unkind act of Ned's; and the people were sosorry for him, that their pleasure in his joy was half pathetic. 'Poorlad!' they said; 'poor fellow! And it was none of his fault.' And thefriendliness that brought him back to hold his high festival and morningjoy of youth among them touched the kindly folks, and went to theirhearts. Stephen Haldane sat at his window, and watched the bride comeand go. Tears came into his eyes, and a pathetic mixture of gladness andsorrow to his heart. He watched the procession go out, and in hisloneliness folded his hands and prayed for them while they were inchurch. It was summer once more, and the blossomed limes were full ofbees, and all the air sweet with scent and sound. While all the goodlycompany walked together to the kirk, Stephen, who could not go withthem, sat there in the sunshine with his folded hands. What thoughtswere in his mind! What broken lights of God's meaning and ways gleamedabout him! What strange clouds passed over him through thesunshine--recollections of his own life, hopes for theirs! And when thebride went away from the door, away into the world with her husband--inthat all-effectual separation from her father's house which may be butfor a few days, but which is more or less for ever, Stephen once morelooked out upon them from his window. And by his side stood Helen,escaped there to command herself and to console him. The father leanedout of the window, waving his hand; but the mother stood behind, withher hand upon the arm of the invalid's chair. When Robert turned round,it was with wonder that he perceived in Stephen's eyes a deeper feeling,a more penetrating emotion, than he himself felt, or had any thought of.He held out his hand to his friend, and he put his arm round his wife.

  'Well, Helen,' he said, with his cheery voice, 'she is gone as you wentfrom your mother; and there are two of us still, whatever life may havein store.'

  'If there had not been two of us,' the mother cried, with momentarypassion, 'I think I should have died!'

  Stephen Haldane took her hand in his, in sign of his sympathy. He heldit tightly, swaying for a moment in his chair. And he said nothing, forthere was no one whose ear was his, to whom his words were precious. Butin his heart he murmured, God hearing him, 'There is but one of me; andI never die.'

  THE END.

  JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

 
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