At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 2 (of 3)

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER V.

  Dr Maurice came down next day. He was a man of very quiet manners, andyet he was unable to conceal a certain excitement. He walked into theGatehouse with an air of abstraction, as if he did not quite know whathe was about.

  'I have come to talk about business,' he said, but he did not send Norahaway. Probably had he not been so glad to see her once more, it wouldhave surprised him to see the child whom he had never beheld apart froma book, standing up by her mother's chair, watching his face, taking inevery word. Norah's _rôle_ had changed since those old days. She had noindependent standing then; now she was her mother's companion, champion,supporter. This changes as nothing else can do a child's life.

  'Our case is to be heard for the first time,' he said. 'I believe theyare all very much startled. Golden was brought before the magistrateyesterday; he has been admitted to bail, of course. If I could have hadthe satisfaction of thinking that rascal was even one night in prison!But that was too much to hope for. Mrs Drummond, can you guess who washis bail?'

  Helen shook her head, not understanding quite what he meant; but all thesame she knew what his answer would be. He brought it out with a certaintriumph--

  'Why, Burton--your precious cousin! I knew it would be so. As sure asthat sun is shining, Burton is at the bottom of it all. I have seen itfrom the first.'

  'Dr Maurice,' said Helen, 'where have I seen, where have I read, "Burtonand Golden have done it"? The words seem to haunt me. It cannot befancy.'

  Dr Maurice took out his pocket-book. He took a folded paper from aninner pocket, and held it to her without a word. Poor Helen, in thecomposure which she had attained so painfully, began to shake andtremble; the sight of it moved her beyond her self-control. She couldnot weep, but her strained nerves quivered, her teeth chattered, herframe was convulsed by the shock. 'Ah!' she cried, as people do whenthey receive a blow; and yet now she remembered it all--every word; itseemed to be written on her heart.

  The physician was alarmed. Human emotion has many ways of showingitself, but none more alarming than this. He put the letter hastily awayagain, and plunged into wild talk about the way she was living, thehouse, and the neighbourhood.

  'You are taking too little exercise. You are shutting yourself up toomuch,' he said, with something of that petulance which so often veilspity. He was not going to encourage her to break down by being sorry forher; the other way, he thought, was the best. And then he himself was onthe very borders of emotion too, the sight of these words had broughtpoor Robert so keenly to his mind. And they had brought to his mind alsohis own hardships. Norah in her new place was very bewildering to him.He had noted her closely while her mother was speaking, and with wonderand trouble had seen a woman look at him through the girl's browneyes--a woman, a new creature, an independent being, whom he did notknow, whom he would have to treat upon a different footing. Thisdiscovery, which he had not made at the first glance, filled him withdismay and trouble. He had lost the child whom he loved.

  'Norah, come and show me the house,' he said, with a certain despair;and he went away, leaving Helen to recover herself. That was better thangoing back upon the past, recalling to both the most painful moments oftheir life.

  He took Norah's hand, and walked through the open door into the garden,which was the first outlet he saw.

  'Come and tell me all about it,' he said. 'Norah, what have you beendoing to yourself? Have you grown up in these three months? You are notthe little girl I used to know.'

  'Oh, Dr Maurice, do you think I have grown?' cried Norah, with her wholeheart in the demand.

  And it would be impossible to describe what a comfort this eagerquestion was to him. He laughed, and looked down upon her, and began tofeel comfortable again.

  'Do you know, I am afraid you have not grown,' he said, putting hisother hand fondly on her brown hair. 'Are you vexed, Norah? For my part,I like you best as you are.'

  'Well, it cannot be helped,' said Norah, with resignation. 'I did notthink I had; but for a moment I had just a little hope, you looked sofunny at me. Oh, Dr Maurice, I do so wish I was grown up!--for manythings. First, there is Mr Burton, who comes and bullies mamma. I hatethat man. I remember at home, in the old days, when you used to betalking, and nobody thought I paid any attention----'

  'What do you remember, Norah?'

  'Oh, heaps of things. I can scarcely tell you. They would look at eachother--I mean Mr Golden and he. They would say things to each other. Oh,I don't remember what the words were; how should I remember the words?but things--just as you might look at me, and give a little nod, if wehad something that was a secret from mamma. I know they had secrets,these two. If I were grown up, and could speak, I would tell him so. DrMaurice, can't we punish them? I cannot imagine,' cried Norahpassionately, 'what God can be thinking of to let them alone, and letthem be happy, after all they have done to--poor papa!'

  'Norah, these are strange things for you to be thinking of,' said DrMaurice, once more disturbed by a development which he was notacquainted with.

  'Oh, no. If you knew how we live, you would not think them strange. I amlittle; but what does that matter? There is mamma on one side, and thereis Mr Haldane. How different we all used to be! Dr Maurice, I rememberwhen poor Mr Haldane used to take me up, and set me on his shoulder; andlook at him now! Oh, how can any one see him, and bear it? But it doesno good to cry.'

  'But, Norah, that is not Mr Burton's fault.'

  'No, not that; but, oh, it is God's fault,' said Norah, sinking hervoice to a whisper, and ending with a burst of passionate tears.

  'Hush, hush, hush!' He took her hand into both of his, and soothed her.Thoughts like these might float through a man's mind involuntarily,getting no utterance; but it horrified him to hear them from the lips ofa child. Was she a child? Dr Maurice said to himself once more, with aninward groan, that his little Norah, his dream-child of the fairy tales,was gone, and he should find her no more.

  'And then it rather vexes one to be so little,' she said, suddenlydrying her eyes, 'because of Clara. Clara is not twelve yet, and she ismuch bigger than I am. She can reach to these roses--look--while I can'tget near them; and they are the only roses we have now. But, after all,though it may be nice to be tall, it doesn't matter very much, do youthink, for a woman? So mamma says; and girls are just as often little astall--in books.'

  'For my part, I am fond of little women,' said Dr Maurice, and this timehe laughed within himself. She kept him between the two, changing fromchildhood to womanhood without knowing it. 'But tell me, who is Clara? Iwant to know about your new friends here.'

  'Clara is Clara Burton, and very like him,' said Norah. 'I thought Ishould be fond of her at first, because she is my cousin; but I am notfond of her. Ned is her brother. I like him better. He is a horsey,doggy sort of boy; but then he has always lived in the country, and heknows no better. One can't blame him for that, do you think?'

  'Oh, no,' said Dr Maurice, with great seriousness; 'one can't blame himfor that.' The man's heart grew glad over the child's talk. He couldhave listened to her running on about her friends for ever.

  'And then there was--some one else,' said Norah, instinctively drawingherself up; 'not exactly a boy; a--gentleman. We saw him in town, andthen we saw him here; first with that horrible man, Mr Golden, andanother day with the Burtons. But you are not to think badly of him forthat. He was--on our side.'

  'Who is this mysterious personage, I wonder?' said Dr Maurice smilingly;but this time it was not a laugh or a groan, but a little shiveringsensation of pain that ran through him, he could not tell why.

  'He was more like Fortunatus than any one,' said Norah. 'But he couldnot be like Fortunatus in everything, for he said he was poor, likeus--though that might be only, as I say it myself, to spite Clara. Well,he was grown up--taller than you are, Dr Maurice--with nice curling sortof hair, all in little twists and rings, and beautiful eyes. Theyflashed up so when mamma spoke. Mamma was very, very angry talking tothat horrible man at our own very door. Fa
ncy, he had dared to go andcall and leave his horrid card. I tore it into twenty pieces, andstamped upon it. It was silly, I suppose; but to think he should dare tocall--at our own very house----'

  'I am getting dreadfully confused, Norah, between the beautiful eyes andthe horrible man. I don't know what I am about. Which was which?'

  'Oh, Dr Maurice, how could you ask such a question? Are there two suchmen in the world? It was _that_ Mr Golden whom I hate; and MrRivers--Cyril Rivers--was with him, not knowing--but he says he willnever go with him again. I saw it in his eyes in a moment; he is on ourside.'

  'You are young to read eyes in this way. I do not think I quite like it,Norah,' said Dr Maurice, in a tone which she recognised at once.

  'Why, you are angry. But how can I help it?' said Norah, growing a womanagain. 'If you were like me, Dr Maurice--if you felt your mamma had onlyyou--if you knew there was nobody else to stand by her, nobody to helpher, and you so little! I am obliged to think; I cannot help myself.When I grow up, I shall have so much to do; and how can I know whetherpeople are on our side or against us, except by looking at their eyes?'

  'Norah, my little Norah!' cried the man pitifully, 'don't leave yourinnocence for such fancies as these. Your mother has friends to thinkfor her and you--many friends; I myself, for example. As long as I amalive, do you require to go and look for people to be on your side? Why,child, you forget _me_.'

  Norah looked at him searchingly, penetrating, as he thought, to thebottom of his heart.

  'I did not forget you, Dr Maurice. You are fond of me and of--poor papa.But I have to think of _her_. I don't think you love _her_. And she hasthe most to bear.'

  Dr Maurice did not make any reply. He did not love Helen; he even shrankfrom the idea with a certain prudish sense of delicacy--an oldbachelor's bashfulness. Love Mrs Drummond! Why, it was out of thequestion. The idea disconcerted him. He had been quite pained andaffected a moment before at the thought that his little Norah--the childthat he was so fond of--should want other champions. But now he wasdisconcerted, and in front of the grave little face looking up at him,he did not even dare to smile. Norah, however, was as ready to raise himup as she had been to cast him down.

  'Do you think Cyril is a pretty name, Dr Maurice?' she asked. 'I thinkit sounds at first a little weak--too pretty for a boy. So is Cecil. Ilike a rough, round sort of name--Ned, for instance. You never couldmistake Ned. One changes one's mind about names, don't you think? I usedto be all for Geralds and Cyrils and pretty sounds like that; now I likethe others best. Clara is pretty for a girl; but everybody thinks Imust be Irish, because I'm called Norah. Why was I called Norah, do youknow? Charlie Dalton calls me Norah Creina.'

  'Here is some one quite fresh. Who is Charlie Dalton?' said Dr Maurice,relieved.

  'Oh, one of the Rectory boys. There are so many of them! What I nevercan understand,' cried Norah suddenly, 'is the difference among people.Mr Dalton has eight children, and mamma has only one; now why? To besure, it would have been very expensive to have had Charlie and all therest on so little money as we have now. I suppose we could not have doneit. And, to be sure, God must have known that, and arranged it onpurpose,' the child said, stopping short with a puzzled look. 'Oh, DrMaurice, when He knew it all, and could have helped it if He pleased,why did He let them kill poor papa?'

  'I do not know,' said Dr Maurice under his breath.

  It was a relief to him when, a few minutes after, Helen appeared at thegarden door, having in the mean time overcome her own feelings. Theywere all in a state of repression, the one hiding from the other allthat was strongest in them for the moment. Such a thing is easily doneat twelve years old. Norah ran along the garden path to meet her mother,throwing off the shadow in a moment. But for the others it was not soeasy. They met, and they talked of the garden, what a nice old-fashionedgarden it was, full of flowers such as one rarely sees now-a-days. AndDr Maurice told Norah the names of some of them, and asked if the treesbore well, and commented upon the aspect, and how well those pears oughtto do upon that warm wall. These are the disguises with which peoplehide themselves when that within does not bear speaking of. There was agreat deal more to be told still, and business to be discussed; butfirst these perverse hearts had to be stilled somehow in their irregularbeating, and the tears which were too near the surface got rid of, andthe wistful, questioning thoughts silenced.

  After a while Dr Maurice went to pay Stephen Haldane a visit. He, too,was concerned in the business which brought the doctor here. The two menwent into it with more understanding than Helen could have had. Shewanted only that Golden should be punished, and her husband's namevindicated--a thing which it seemed to her so easy to do. But they knewthat proof was wanted--proof which was not forthcoming. Dr Maurice toldHaldane what Helen gave him no opportunity to tell her--that the lawyerswere not sanguine. The books which had disappeared were the onlyevidence upon which Golden's guilt and Drummond's innocence could beeither proved or disproved. And all the people about the office, fromthe lowest to the highest, had been summoned to tell what they knewabout those books. Nobody, it appeared, had seen them removed; nobodyhad seen the painter carry them away; there was this negative evidencein his favour, if no other. But there was nothing to prove that Goldenhad done it, or any other person involved, and, so far as this wasconcerned, obscurity reigned over the whole matter--an obscurity notpierced as yet by any ray of light.

  'At all events, we shall fight it out,' said Dr Maurice. 'The only thingto be risked now is a little money more or less, and that, I suppose, aman ought to be willing to risk for the sake of justice--myselfespecially, who have neither chick nor child.'

  He said this in so dreary a way that poor Stephen smiled. The man whowas removed from any such delights--who could never improve his ownposition in any way, nor procure for himself any of the joys of life,looked at the man who thus announced himself with a mixture of gentleridicule and pity.

  'That at least must be your own fault,' he said; and then he thought ofhimself, and sighed.

  No one knew what dreams might have been in Stephen Haldane's mind beforehe became the wreck he was. Probably no one ever would know. He smiledat the other, but for himself he could not restrain a sigh.

  'I don't see how it can be said to be my own fault,' said Dr Mauricewith whimsical petulance. 'There are preliminary steps, of course, whichone might take--but not necessarily with success--not by any meanscertainly with success. I tell you what, though, Haldane,' he addedhastily, after a pause, 'I'd like to adopt Norah Drummond. That is whatI should like to do. I'd be very good to her; she should have everythingshe could set her face to. To start a strange child from the beginning,even if it were one's own, is always like putting into a lottery. A babyis no better than a speculation. How do you know what it may turn out?whereas a creature like Norah----Ah, that is what I should like, toadopt such a child as that!'

  'To adopt--Norah?' Stephen grew pale. 'What! to take her from hermother! to carry away the one little gleam of light!'

  'She would be a gleam of light to me too,' said Dr Maurice, 'and I coulddo her justice. I could provide for her. Her mother, if she cared forthe child's interest, ought not to stand in the way. There! you need notlook so horror-stricken. I don't mean to attempt it. I only say that iswhat I should like to do.'

  But the proposal, even when so lightly made, took away Stephen's breath.He did not recover himself for some time. He muttered, 'Adopt--Norah!'under his breath, while his friend talked on other subjects. He couldnot forget it. He even made Dr Maurice a little speech when he rose togo away. He put out his hand and grasped the other's arm in theearnestness of his interest.

  'Look here, Maurice,' he said, 'wealth has its temptations as well aspoverty; because you have plenty of money, if you think you could makesuch a proposition----'

  'What proposition?'

  'To take Norah from her mother. If you were to tempt Mrs Drummond forthe child's sake to give up the child, by promising to provide for her,or whatever you might say--if you wer
e to do that, God forgive you,Maurice--I know I never could!'

  'Of course I shall not do it,' said Maurice hastily. And he went awaywith the feeling in his mind that this man, too, was his rival, and hissuccessful rival. The child was as good as Stephen's child, though sofar removed from himself. Dr Maurice was so far wrong that it was HelenStephen was thinking of, and not Norah. The child would be a loss tohim; but the loss of her mother would be so much greater that the verythought of it oppressed his soul. He had grown to be Helen's friend inthe truest sense; he had felt her sympathy to be almost too touching tohim, almost too sweet; and he could not bear the possibility of seeingher deprived of her one solace. He sat alone after Maurice had gone away(for his mother and sister had left them to have their conversationunfettered by listeners), and pondered over the possible fate of themother and child. The child would grow up; in a very few years she wouldbe a woman; she would marry, in all likelihood, and go away, and belongto them no more; and Helen would be left to bear her lot alone. Shewould be left in the middle of her days to carry her burden as shemight, deserted by every love that had once belonged to her. What a lotwould that be!--worse, even, than his own, who, amid all his pains, hadtwo hearts devoted to him never to be disjoined from him but by death.Poor Stephen, you would have supposed, was himself in the lowest depthsof human suffering and solitude; but yet he looked down upon a lowerstill, and his heart bled for Helen, who, it might be, would have todescend into that abyss in all the fulness of her life and strength.What a sin would that man's be, he thought, who arbitrarily,unnaturally, should try to hasten on that separation by a single day!

  Dr Maurice went back to the other side of the house, and had his talkout quietly with Mrs Drummond; he told her what he had told Haldane,while Norah looked at him over her mother's chair, and listened to everyword. To her he said that it was the lawyers' opinion that they might dogood even though they proved nothing--they would stir up public opinion;they might open the way for further information. And with this, perhaps,it might be necessary to be content.

  'There is one way in which something might be possible,' he said. 'Allthe people about the office have been found and called as witnesses,except one. That was the night-porter, who might be an importantwitness; but I hear he lives in the country, and has been lost sight of.He might know something; without that we have no proof whatever. I formy own part should as soon think the sun had come out of the skies, butDrummond, for some reason we know nothing of, might have taken thosebooks----'

  'Are you forsaking him too?' cried Helen in her haste.

  'I am not in the least forsaking him,' said Dr Maurice; 'but how can wetell what had been said to him--what last resource he had been drivento? If we could find that porter there might be something done. He wouldknow when they were taken away.'

  Helen made no answer; she did not take the interest she might have donein the evidence. She said softly, as if repeating to herself--

  'Burton and Golden, Burton and Golden!' Could it be? What communicationcould they have had? how could they have been together? This thoughtconfused her, and yet she believed in it as if it were gospel. Sheturned it over and over like a strange weapon of which she did not knowthe use.

  'Yes, something may come out of that. We may discover some connectionbetween them when everything is raked up in this way. Norah thinks sotoo. Norah feels that they are linked together somehow. Will you comewith me to the station, Norah, and see me away?'

  'We are both going,' said Helen. And they put on their bonnets andwalked to the railway with him through the early twilight. The lightswere shining out in the village windows as they passed, and in theshops, which made an illumination here and there. The train was comingfrom town--men coming from their work, ladies returning, who had beenshopping in London, meeting their children, who went to carry home theparcels in pleasant groups. The road was full of a dozen little domesticscenes, such as are to be seen only in the neighbourhood of London. Acertain envy was in the thoughts of all three as they passed on. Norahlooked at the boys and girls with a little sigh, wondering how it wouldfeel to have brothers and sisters, to be one of a merry happy family.And Helen looked at them with a different feeling, remembering the timewhen she, too, had gone to meet her own people who were coming home. Asfor Dr Maurice, of course it was his own fault. He had chosen to havenobody belonging to him, to shut himself off from the comfort of wifeand child. Yet he was more impatient of all the cheerful groups thaneither of the others.

  'Talk of the country being quiet! it is more noisy than town,' he said;he had just been quietly pushed off the pavement by a girl like Norah,who was running to meet her father. That should have been nothing tohim, surely, but he felt injured. 'I wish you would come with me andkeep my house for me, Norah,' he said, with a vain harping on his onestring; and Norah laughed with gay freedom at the thought.

  'Good night, Dr Maurice; come back soon,' she said, waving her hand tohim, then turned away with her mother, and did not even look back. Hewas quite sure about this, as he settled himself in the corner of thecarriage. So fond as he was of the child; so much as he would have likedto have done for her! And she never so much as looked back!