CHAPTER VI.
The Gatehouse was full of long, rambling, dark passages with mysteriousclosets at each elbow of them, or curious little unused rooms--passageswhich had struck terror to Norah's soul when she was a child, and whicheven now she thought it expedient to run through as speedily aspossible, never feeling sure that she might not be caught by someghostly intruder behind the half-shut doors. Mrs Drummond followed Susanthrough one of these intricate winding ways. It led to a corner roomlooking out upon the garden, and close to the kitchen, which was Susan'sbed-chamber. For some forgotten reason or other there was a sort ofwindow, three or four broad panes of glass let into the partition wallhigh up between this room and the kitchen, the consequence of which wasthat Susan's room always showed a faint light to the garden. This washer reason for taking it as the hiding-place for the strange guest.
Mrs Drummond went down the dark passage, feeling herself incapable ofspeech and almost of thought; a vague wonder why he should be so hotlypursued, and how it was that Susan should have known this and taken itupon herself to receive and shelter one who was a stranger to her,passed through Helen's mind. Both these things were strange and must beinquired into hereafter, but in the mean time her heart was beating toohigh with personal emotion to be able to think of anything else. Was itpossible that thus strangely, thus suddenly, she was to meet him againfrom whom she had been so long parted? Their last interview rushed backupon her mind, and his appearance then. Seven years ago!--and a manchanges altogether, becomes, people say, another being in seven years.This thought quivered vaguely through Helen's mind. So many thoughtswent pursuing each other, swift and noiseless as ghosts. It was notabove two minutes from the time she came into the hall until she stoodat the threshold of Susan's room; but a whole world of questions, ofreflections, had hurried through her thoughts. She trembled by intervalswith a nervous shiver. Her heart beat so violently that it seemed atonce to choke and to paralyse her. To see him again--to stand face toface with him who had come back out of the grave,--to change her wholebeing,--to be no more herself, no more Norah's mother, but Robert's wifeagain! Her whole frame began to shake as with one great pulse. It wasnot joy, it was not fear; it was the wonder of it, the miracle, thestrange, strange, incomprehensible, incredible--Could he bethere?--nothing more between the two who had been parted by death andsilence but that closed door?
Susan turned round upon her just before they reached it. Susan, too,hard, bony woman, little given to emotion, was trembling. She wiped hereyes with her apron and gave a sniff that was almost a groan, and thrustthe candle into Helen's hand.
'Oh, don't you be hard upon him, Miss Helen as was!' cried Susan with asob; and turned and fled into her kitchen.
Helen stopped for a moment to steady herself--to steady the light of thepoor candle which, held by such agitated, unsteady hands, was flickeringwildly in her grasp. And then she opened the door.
Some one started and rose up suddenly with a movement which had at oncefear and watchfulness in it. Her agitation blinded her so that shecould not see. She held up the light,--if her misty eyes could have madehim out,--and then all at once there came a voice which made her nervessteady in a moment, calmed down her pulses, restored to herself-command.
'Helen, is it you? I thought it must be my wife.'
The blood rushed back to Helen's heart with an ebb as sudden as the flowhad been, making her faint and sick. But the revulsion of feeling was asstrong, and gave her strength. The light gave a leap in her hand as shesteadied herself, and threw a wild broken gleam upon him.
'Mr Burton,' she said, 'what are you doing here?'
'Then the news had not come,' he cried, with a certain relief; 'nobodyknows as yet? Well, well, things are not so bad, then, as I thought.'
She put the candle on the table and looked at him. He was dressed in hismorning clothes, those light-coloured summer garments which made hisfull person fuller, but which at this hour, and after the scene fromwhich she had just come, looked strangely disorderly and out of place.His linen was crushed and soiled, and his coat, which was of a colourand material which showed specks and wrinkles as much as a woman'sdress, had the look of having been worn for a week night and day. Theair of the vagabond which comes so rapidly to a hunted man had come tohim already, and mixed with his habitual air of respectability, ofwealth and self-importance, in the most curious, almost pitiful way.
'Tell me,' she said, repeating her question almost without knowing whatshe said, 'why are you here?'
He did not answer immediately. He made an effort to put on his usualjaunty look, to speak with his usual jocular superiority. Butsomething--whether it was the flickering, feeble light of the candlewhich showed him her face, or some instinct of his own, which necessityhad quickened into life--made him aware all at once that the woman byhis side was in a whirl of mental indecision, that she was waveringbetween two resolves, and that this was no time to trifle with her. Insuch circumstances sometimes a man will seize upon the best argumentwhich skill could select, but sometimes also in his haste and excitementhe snatches at the one which makes most against him. He said--
'I will tell you plainly, Helen. I am as your husband was when he wentdown to the river--that night.'
She gave a strange and sudden cry, and turning round made one quick stepto the door. If she had not seen that Dives in the exhibition, if shehad not been in the grip of wild hope and expectation, I think she wouldhave gone straightway, driven by that sudden probing of the old wound,and given him up to his pursuers. At least that would have been herfirst impulse; but something turned her back. She turned to him againwith a sudden fire kindled in her eyes.
'It was you who drove him there,' she said.
He made a little deprecating gesture with his hands, but he did not sayanything. He saw in a moment that he had made a mistake.
'You drove him there,' she repeated, 'you and--that man; and now youcome to me and think I will save you--to me, his wife. You drove him todespair, to ruin, and you think I am to save you. Why should I? Whathave you done that I should help you? You had no pity on him; you lethim perish, you let him die. You injured me and mine beyond the reach ofrecovery; and now you put yourself into my hands--with your enemiesoutside!'
He gave a shudder, and looked at the window as if with a thought ofescape; and then he turned round upon her, standing at bay.
'Well,' he said, 'you have your revenge; I am ruined too. I don'tpretend to hide it from you; but I have no river at hand to escape intoto hide all my troubles in,--but only a woman to taunt me that I havetried to be kind to--and my wife and my child dancing away close by.Listen; that is what you call comfort for a ruined man, is it not?'
He pointed towards Dura as he spoke. Just then a gust of the softnight-wind brought with it the sound of the music from the great house,that house ablaze with gaiety, with splendour, and light, where ClaraBurton all jewelled and crowned with flowers was dancing at this moment,while her mother led the way to the gorgeous table where princes mighthave sat down. No doubt the whole scene rose before his imagination asit did before Helen's. He sat down upon Susan's rush-bottomed chair witha short laugh. One candle flickering in the dim place revealing all thehomely furniture of the servant's bed-room. What a contrast! what afate! Helen felt as every generous mind feels, humbled before thepresence of the immediate sufferer. He had injured her, and she,perhaps, had suffered more deeply than Reginald Burton was capable ofsuffering; but it was his turn now; he had the first place. The sorrowwas his before which even kings must bow.
While she stood there with pity stealing into her heart, he put down hishead into his hands with a gesture of utter weariness.
'Whatever you are going to do,' he said faintly, 'let Susan give mesomething to eat first. I have had nothing to eat all day.'
This appeal made an end of all Helen's enmity. It had been deep, andhot, and bitter when all was well with him--but the first taste ofrevenge which Ned's disappearance gave her had appeased Mrs Drummond. Itha
d been bitter, not sweet. And now this appeal overcame all herdefences. If he had asked her to aid in his escape she might haveresisted still. But he asked her for a meal. Tears of humiliation, ofpitying shame, almost of a kind of tenderness came into her eyes. Godhelp the man! Had it come to this?
She turned into the kitchen, where Susan sat bolt upright in a hardwooden chair before the fire, with her arms folded, the most watchful ofsentinels. They had a momentary discussion what there was to set beforehim, and where it was to be served. Susan's opinion was very strongly infavour of the kitchen.
'Those villains 'ud see the lights to the front,' said Susan. 'And thenMiss Norah, she'll be coming home, and folks with her. Them policemen isup to everything. The shutters don't close up to the very top; and ifthey was to climb into one o' the trees! And besides, there's a firehere.'
'It is too warm for a fire, Susan.'
'Not for them as is in trouble,' said the woman; and she had her way.
Helen arranged the table with her own hands, while Susan made up withher best skill an impromptu meal--not of the richest or choicest, forthe larder at the Gatehouse was poorly enough supplied; but fortunatelythere had been something provided for next day's dinner which wasavailable. And when the fugitive came in to the warm kitchen--he who theday before had made all the household miserable in Dura over the failureof a salmi--he warmed his hands with a shiver of returning comfort, andsniffed the poor cutlet as it cooked, and made a wretched attempt at ajoke in the sudden sense of ease and solace that had come to him.
'He was always one for his joke, was Mr Reginald,' Susan said with asob; and as for Helen, this poor pleasantry completed her prostration.The sight of him warming himself on this July night, eating so eagerly,like a man famished, filled her with an indescribable pity. It was notso much magnanimity on her part as utter failure on his. How could shelay sins to this man's charge, who was not great enough in himself tofrighten a fly? The pity in her heart hurt her like an ache, and she wasashamed.
But what was to be done? She went softly, almost stealthily (with thestrange feeling that they might hear her out of doors, of which she wasnot herself aware), up to her bed-room, which was over the drawing-room,and looked out into the moonlight. The men still kept their place,opposite at the Rectory gate--and now a third man, one of the Durapolice, with his lantern in his hand, joined them. Helen was a womanfull of all the natural prejudices and susceptibilities. Her pridereceived such a wound by the appearance of this policeman as it would bedifficult to describe. Reginald Burton was her enemy, her antagonist;and yet now she remembered her cousin. The Burtons had been ofunblemished good fame in all their branches till now. The shame whichhad been momentarily thrown upon her husband had been connected with somuch anguish that Helen's pride had not been called uppermost. But nowit seized upon her. The moment the Dura policeman appeared, it becameevident to her that all the world knew, and the pang ran through herproud heart like a sudden arrow. Her kindred were disgraced, her ownblood, the honest, good people in their graves; and Ned--poor, innocentNed!--at the other end of the world. The pang was so sharp that itforced tears from her, though she was not given to weeping. A policeman!as if the man was a thief who was her own cousin, of her own blood! Andthen the question returned, What was to be done? I don't know whathorrible vision of the culprit dragged through the street, with hisignominy visible to the whole world, rose before Helen's imagination. Itdid not occur to her that such a capture might be very decorously, veryquietly made. She could think of nothing but the poor ragged wretch whomshe had once seen handcuffed, his clothes all muddy with the falls hehad got in struggling for his liberty, and a policeman on either side ofhim. This was the only form in which she could realise an arrest by thehands of justice. And to see the master of Dura thus dragged through thevillage, with all the people round, once so obsequious, staring withstupid, impudent wonder! Anything, anything rather than that! Helen randown-stairs again, startling herself with the sound she made. In thequiet she could hear the knife and fork which were still busy in thekitchen, and the broken talk with Susan which the fugitive kept up. Sheheard him laugh, and it made her heart sick. This time she turned to theother side, to the long passage opposite to that which led to thekitchen, which was the way of communication with the apartments of theHaldanes. The door there, which was generally fastened, was opento-night, and the light was still in Stephen's window, and he himself,for the first time for years, had been left to this late hour in hischair. He was seated there, very still and motionless, when Helenentered. He had dropped asleep in his loneliness. The candles on thetable before him threw a strange light upon the pallor of his face, uponthe closed eyes, and head thrown back. His hair had grown grey in theseseven years; his face had refined and softened in the long suffering, inthe patient, still, leaden days which he had lived through, making nocomplaint. He looked like an apostle in this awful yet gentlestillness--and he looked as if he were dead.
But even Mrs Drummond's entrance was enough to rouse him--the rustle ofher dress, or perhaps even the mere sense that there was some one nearhim. He opened his eyes dreamily.
'Well, mother, I hope you have enjoyed it,' he said, with a smile. Thensuddenly becoming aware who his companion was, 'Mrs Drummond! I beg yourpardon. What has happened?'
She came and stood by him, holding out her hand, which he took and heldbetween his. There was a mutual pity between these two--a sympathy whichwas almost tenderness. They were so sorry for each other--so destituteof any power to help each other! Most touching and close of bonds!
'Something has happened,' she said. 'Mr Haldane, I have come to you foryour advice.'
He looked up at her anxiously.
'Not Norah--not--any one arrived----'
'Oh, no, no; something shameful, painful, terrible. You know what isgoing on at the great house. Mr Haldane, Reginald Burton is here inSusan's kitchen, hidden, and men watching for him outside.Men--policemen! That is what I mean. And oh! what am I to do?'
He held her hand still, and his touch kept her calm. He did not sayanything for a minute, except one low exclamation under his breath.
'Sit down,' he said. 'You are worn out. Is it very late?'
'Past midnight. By-and-by your mother will be back. Tell me first,while we are alone and can speak freely, what can I do?'
'He is hiding here,' said Stephen, 'and policemen outside? Then he isruined, and found out. That is what you mean. Compose yourself, and tellme, if you can, what you know, and what you _wish_ to do.'
'Oh, what does my wish matter?' she cried. 'I am asking you what ispossible. I know little more than I tell you. He is here, worn-out,miserable, ruined, and the men watching to take him. I don't know how ithas happened, why he came, or how they found it out; but so it is. Theyare there now in front of the house. How am I to get him out?'
'Is that the only question?' Stephen asked.
She looked at him with an impatience she could not restrain.
'What other question can there be, Mr Haldane? In a few minutes theywill be back.'
'But there is another question,' he said. 'I believe this man has beenour ruin--yours and mine--yours, Mrs Drummond, more fatally than mine.Golden was but one of his instruments, I believe--as guilty, but notmore so. He has ruined us, and more than us----'
She wrung her hands in her impatience.
'Mr Haldane, I hear steps. We may but have a moment more.'
He put his hand upon her arm.
'Think!' he cried. 'Are we to let him go--to save him that he may ruinothers? Is it just? Think what he has made us all suffer. Is there to beno punishment for him?'
'Oh, punishment!' she cried. 'Do you know what punishment means, whenyou make yourself the instrument of it? It means revenge; and there isnothing so bitter, nothing so terrible, as to see your own handiwork,and to think, ”It was not God that did this; it was me.”'
'How can _you_ tell?'
'Oh, yes, I can tell. There was his son. I thought it was a just retu
rnfor all the harm he had done when his poor boy----But Ned went away, andleft everything. It was not my fault; it was not Norah's fault. Yet shehad done it, and I had wished she might. No; no more revenge. How can Iget him away?'
'I am not so forgiving as you,' he said.
Helen could not rest. She rose up from the seat she had drawn to hisside, and went to the window. There were steps that frightened hermoving about outside, and then there was the sound of voices.
'Come in and go over the house! Come in at this hour of the night!' saida voice. It was Miss Jane's voice, brisk and alert as usual. Helenhurried into the hall, to the door, where she could hear what was said.
'But Jane, Jane, if any one has got in? A thief--perhaps a murderer! Oh,my poor Stephen!'
'Nonsense, mother! If you like to stay outside there, I'll go over allthe house with Susan, and let you know. Why, Mrs Drummond! Here are somemen who want to come in to search for some one at this time of night.'
'I have told them already they should not come in,' said Helen.
She had opened the door, and stood in front of it with a temerity whichshe scarcely felt justified in; for how did she know they might not rushpast her, and get in before she could stop them? Such was her idea--suchwas the idea of all the innocent people in the house. The Dura policemanwas standing by with his truncheon and his lantern.
'I've told 'em, mum, as it's a mistake,' said that functionary; 'andthat this 'ere is the quietest, most respectablest 'ouse--'
'Thanks, Wilkins,' said Helen.
It was a positive comfort to her, and did her good, this simpletestimony. And to think that Wilkins knew no better than that!
'Will you keep near the house?' she said, turning to him, with thatfeeling that he was 'on our side' which had once prepossessed Norah infavour of Mr Rivers. 'My daughter will be coming back presently, and Idon't want to have her annoyed or frightened with this story. No oneexcept the people who belong to it shall enter this house to-night.'
'As you please, ma'am; but I hope you knows the penalty,' said thedetective.
Helen did not know of any penalty, nor did she care. She was wound up toso high a strain of excitement, that had she been called upon to put herarm in the place of the bolt, or do any other futile heroic piece ofresistance, she would not have hesitated. She closed the door upon MrsHaldane and her daughter, one of whom was frightened and the otherexcited. As they all came into the hall, Susan became visible, with hercandle in her hand, defending the passage to the kitchen. Somethingludicrous, something pathetic and tragic and terrible was in the aspectof the house, and its guardians--had one been wise enough to perceivewhat it meant.
'If Susan will come with me,' said Miss Jane briskly; 'after that idiotof a man's romance, my mother will think we are all going to be murderedin our beds. If Susan will come with me, I'll go over all the house.'
'We have examined ours,' said Helen. 'Susan, go with Miss Jane. MrsHaldane, Mr Stephen is tired, I think.'
'Stephen must not be alarmed,' said Mrs Haldane with hesitation. 'Butare you sure it is safe? Do you really think it is safe? You see, afterall, when our door is open it is one house. A man might run from oneroom to another. Oh, Jane--Mrs Drummond--if you will believe me, I cansee a shadow down that passage! Oh, my dear, you are young and rash! Themen will know better; let them come in.'
'I cannot allow them to come in. There is no one, I assure you, exceptyour son, who wants your help.'
'You are like Jane,' said the old lady; 'you are so bold and rash. Oh, Iwish I had begged them to stay all night. I wouldn't mind giving ashilling or two. Think if Stephen should be frightened! Oh, yes, I amgoing; but don't leave me, dear. I couldn't be alone; I shall befrightened of my life.'
This was how it was that Helen was in Stephen's room again when MissJane came down, bustling and satisfied.
'You may make yourself perfectly easy, mother. We have gone over all therooms--looked under the beds and in the cupboards, and there is not aghost of anything. Poor Susan is tired sitting up for us all; I told herI'd wait up for Norah. Well, now you don't ask any news of the ball,Stephen. Norah has danced the whole evening; I have never seen hersitting down once. Her dress is beautiful; and as for herself, my dear!But everybody was looking their best. I don't admire Clara Burton in ageneral way; but really Clara Burton was something splendid--Yes, yes,mother; of course we must get Stephen to bed.'
'Good-night,' said Helen, going up to him. She looked in his facewistfully; but now the opportunity was over, and what could he say? Heheld her hand a moment, feeling the tremor in it.
'Good-night,' he said; and then very low he added hurriedly, 'The gateinto the Dura woods--the garden door.'
'Thanks,' she said, with a loud throb of her heart.
The excitement, the suspense, were carrying Helen far beyond her will orintention. She had been sensible of a struggle at first whether shewould not betray the fugitive. Now her thoughts had progressed so fastand far, that she would have fought for him, putting even her slightstrength in the way to defend him or protect his retreat. He was a manwhom she almost hated; and yet all her thoughts were with him, wonderingwas he safe by himself, and what could be done to make him safer still.She left the Haldanes' side of the house eagerly, and hurried down thepassage to the kitchen. He was there, in Susan's arm-chair before thefire. His meal was over, and he had turned to the fire again, and falleninto a doze. While she was moving about in a fever of anxiety, hehimself with his head sunk on his breast, was unconscious of his owndanger. Helen, who felt incapable of either resting or sleep, stoodstill and looked at him in a sort of stupor.
'Poor dear, poor dear!' said Susan, holding up her hand in warning,'he's been worrited and worn out, and he's dozed off--the best thing hecould do.'
He might rest, but she could not. She went down the few steps to thegarden, and stole out into the night, cautiously opening and closingthe door. The garden was walled all round. It was a productive, wealthygarden, which, even when the Gatehouse had been empty, was worth keepingup, and its doors and fastenings were all in good order. There was nochance of any one getting in by that side. Mrs Drummond stole out intothe white moonlight, which suddenly surged upon her figure, and blazonedit all over with silver, and crept round, trembling at every pebble shedisturbed, to the unused door which opened into the Dura woods. It hadbeen made that there might be a rapid means of communication between theGatehouse and the mansion, but it had never been used since theDrummonds came. She had forgotten this door until Stephen reminded herof its existence. It was partially hid behind a thicket ofraspberry-bushes, which had grown high and strong in front. Fortunately,a rusted key was in the lock. With the greatest difficulty Helen turnedit, feeling as if the sound, as it grated and resisted, raisedwhirlwinds of echoes all round her, and must betray what she was doing.Even when it was unlocked, it took all her strength to pull it open, forshe could do no more. For one moment she pressed out into the dark,rustling woods. Through the foliage she could see the glance of thelights from the house and the moving flicker of carriage-lamps goingdown the avenue. The music came upon her with a sudden burst like aninsult. Oh, heaven! to think that all this should be going on, thedancing and laughter, and _him_ dozing there by Susan's kitchen fire!
She paused a little in the garden in the stillness--not for rest, butthat she might arrange her thoughts, without interruption. But there wasno stillness there that night. The music came to her on the soft wind,now lower, now louder; the sound of the carriage wheels coming and goingkept up a low, continuous roll; now and then there would come the soundof a voice. It was still early; only a few timid guests who feared latehours, old people and spectators like the Haldanes, were leaving theball. It was in full career. The very sky seemed flushed over DuraHouse, with its numberless lights.
Helen formed her plan as she crept about the garden in the moonlight.Oh, if some kindly cloud would but rise, and veil for a little this poorearth with its mysteries! But all was clear, well seen, visible;
theclear night and the blue heavens were not pitiful, like Helen. Man isoften hard upon man, heaven knows, yet it is man only who can feel forthe troubles of mankind.
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