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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER VIII.

  A summer night passes quickly to those who have need of darkness fortheir movements. When Mrs Drummond found herself at liberty to carry outthe plan she had formed, the time before her was very short. She wentback to the kitchen, and called Susan to her. Mr Burton woke up as shecame in, and they had a hurried consultation; the consequence of whichwas that Susan was sent to the stables, which were not very far from thegarden door of the Gatehouse, to order a carriage to be dispatchedinstantly to pick up Mr Burton at the north gate, two miles off, in theopposite direction from the village. He could walk thus through thegrounds by paths he was familiar with, and drive to a station five milesfurther off on another railway. So readily do even innocence andignorance fall into the shifty ways of guilt that this was Helen's plan.He was to wait here till Susan returned, and the experiment of hergoing would be a proof if the way was quite safe for him. When Susan wasgone Mrs Drummond returned alone to where her guest sat before thekitchen fire. She had her blotting-book under her arm, and an inkstandin her hand. 'Before you go,' she said in a low voice, 'I want you to dosomething for me.'

  'I will do anything for you,' he cried--'anything! Helen, I have notdeserved it. You might have treated me very differently. You have beenmy salvation.'

  'Hush!' she said. His thanks recalled her old feelings of distrust anddislike rather than the new ones of pity. She put down her writingthings on the table. 'I have my conditions as well as other people,' shesaid. 'I want now to know the truth.'

  'What truth?'

  'About Rivers's,' she said.

  'Helen!'

  'It is useless for you to resist or deny me,' she replied, 'you are inmy power. I am willing to do everything to serve you, but I will have afull explanation. Write it how you please--but you shall not leave thisplace till you have given me the means, when I please, and how I please,of proving the truth.'

  'What is the truth, as you call it?' he said sullenly; 'what have I todo with it? Drummond and the rest went into it with their eyes open; allthe accounts of the concern were open to them.'

  'I do not pretend to understand it,' said Helen. 'But you do. Here arepens and paper. I insist upon a full explanation--how it was that soflourishing a business perished in three years; where those books wentto, which Robert was so falsely accused of destroying. Oh, are you notafraid to tire out my patience? Do you know that you are in my power?'

  He gave an alarmed look at her. He had forgotten everything but thosefables about feminine weakness which are current among such men, and hadhalf laughed in his sleeve half an hour before at her readiness to helpand serve him. But now all at once he perceived that laughter was out ofplace, and there was no time to lose. The reflection that ran throughhis mind was--All must come out in a week or two--it will do her nogood; but it can do me no harm. 'If I am to give an account of the wholehistory it will take me hours,' he said. 'I may as well give up allthought of getting away to-night.' But he drew the blotting-book towardshim. Helen did not relax nor falter. She lighted another candle; sheleft him to himself with a serious belief in his good faith whichstartled him. She moved about the kitchen while he wrote, filling asmall flask with wine out of the solitary bottle which had been broughtout for his refreshment, and which represented the entire cellar of theGatehouse--even brushing the coat which he had thrown aside, that itmight be ready for him. The man watched her with the wonder of aninferior nature. He had loved her once, and it had given him a truepleasure to humble her when the moment came. But now the ascendancy hadreturned into her hands. Had he been in her place how he would havetriumphed! But Helen did not triumph. His misery did not please, itbowed her down to the ground. She was sad--suffering for him, ashamed,anxious. He did not understand it. Gradually, he could not have toldhow, her look affected him. He tore up the first statement he hadcommenced, a florid, apologetic narrative. He tore up the second, inwhich he threw the blame upon the ignorance of business of poor Drummondand his fellow-directors. Finally he was moved so strangely out ofhimself that he wrote the simple truth, and no more, without a word ofapology or explanation. Half-a-dozen lines were enough for that. Theapology would, as he said, have taken hours.

  And then Susan came back. By this time he had written not only theexplanation required of him, but a letter to his wife, and was ready totry his fate once more. Helen herself went with him to the garden door;the path through the woods was dark, hidden from the moonlight by theclose copses and high fence, which it skirted for many a mile. And therewould not be daylight to betray him for at least an hour. He stood onthe verge of the dark wood, and took her hand. 'Helen, you have savedme: God bless you,' he said. And in a moment this strange episode wasover, as though it had never been. She stood under the rustling trees,and listened to his footsteps. The night wind blew chill in her face,the dark boughs swayed round her as if catching at her garments. Ahundred little crackling sounds, echoes, movements among the copse, allthe jars and broken tones of nature that startle the fugitive, made herheart beat with terror. If she had felt a hand on her shoulder, seizingher instead of him, Helen would not have been surprised. But while shestood and listened all the sounds seemed to die away again in thestillness of the night. And the broad moonlight shone, silvering theblack trees, out of which all individuality had fled, and the music fromDura came back in a gust, and the roll of the carriages slowly movingabout the avenue, waiting for the dancers. And but that Helen stood inso unusual a spot, with that garden door half open behind her, and thebig key in her hand, she might have thought that all this was nothingmore than a dream.

  She went in, and locked the door; and then returned to Susan's kitchen.It was her turn now to feel the cold, after her excitement was over; shewent in shivering, and drew close to the fire. She put her head downinto her hands. The tears came to her eyes unawares; weariness had comeupon her all at once, when the necessity of exertion was over. She heldin her hand the paper she had made Burton write, but she had not energyenough to look at it. Would it ever be of any use to her? Would he whomit concerned ever return? Or was all this--the picture, the visit to theExhibition, the sudden conviction which had seized upon her--were theseall so many delusions in her dream? After a while Miss Jane, allunconscious, excited with her unusual pleasure, and full of everythingshe had seen, came and sat by her and talked. 'I told Susan to go tobed,' said Miss Jane; 'and I wish you would go too, Mrs Drummond. I willsit up for Norah. Oh, how proud I was of that child to-night! I supposeit's very wrong, you know--so my mother says--but I can't help it. It isjust as well I am a single woman, and have no children of my own; for Ishould have been a fool about them. The worst of all is that we shan'tkeep her long. She will marry, and then what shall we do? I am sure tolose her would break Stephen's heart.'

  'She is very young,' said Helen, who answered for civility's sake alone,and who with all the heavy thoughts in her heart and apprehensions forthe fugitive, would have given much to be left to herself.

  'Yes, she is young; but not too young to do a great deal of mischief.When I saw all those men on their knees before her!' cried Miss Jane,with a laugh of triumph. She had never been an object of much admirationor homage herself; men had not gone on their knees to her, though nodoubt she was more worthy than many of the foolish creatures who havebeen so worshipped; but the result of this was that Miss Jane enjoyedheartily the revenge which other women had it in their power to take forall the slights and scorns to which she and her homely sisters had beensubjected. She liked to see 'them' punished, though 'they' were aninnocent, new generation, blameless, so far as she was concerned. Shewould not have injured a fly; but her face beamed all over with delightat the thought that it was Norah's mission to break hearts.

  Thus the good soul sat and talked, while Helen listened to every sound,and wondered where was he now? what might be happening? She did not evenhear what was being said to her until Miss Jane fell into a moralisingvein. 'The Burtons are at the height of their splendour now,' she said.'I never saw anything so grand as it was.
I don't think anything couldbe grander. But oh, Mrs Drummond, people's sins find them out. There'sClara getting bewitched by that man; everybody could see it. A man oldenough to be her father, without a scrap of character, and no moneyeven, I suppose. Think of that! and oh, what will all their grandeur dofor them, with Ned at the other end of the world, and Clara throwingherself away?'

  'Oh, hush, hush!' cried Helen. 'Don't prophesy any more misfortune;there is enough without that.'

  And five minutes after Norah came to the door, surrounded by the partyfrom the Rectory, all pale and terror-stricken, with the news which theyfelt to be so terrible. 'Clara has gone away!' They stood at the doorand told this tale, huddled together in the fresh sunshine, the girlscrying, the elder women asking each other, 'what would the Burtons do?''She was almost rude to me. She sent me away,' Mrs Dalton said, 'or Ishould have stayed with her. And Mr Burton is not there! What will shedo?' They could scarcely make up their minds to separate, worn out andmiserable as they all were. And, opposite, in the morning sunshine, twomen still watched the Gatehouse, as they had watched it all through thenight.

  These miseries all ended in a misery which was comic, had any of themhad heart enough left to laugh. While she helped to undress Norah, MissJane suddenly uttered a scream, which made Helen tremble from head tofoot. She had caught in her hands the pretty flounces of that whitedress, that lovely dress, Dr Maurice's present, which had turned poorlittle Cinderella-Norah into an enchanted princess; but now, alas, alllimp, damp, ruined! even stained with the dewy grass and gravel acrosswhich it had come. Miss Jane could have cried with vexation and dismay.This was the climax of all the agonies of that wonderful night; but,fortunately, it was not so hopeless as the others. An hour later, whenthe house was all silent, and even Helen lay with her eyes shut, longingto sleep, Miss Jane stole down-stairs again, carrying this melancholygarment on her arm. She went to Susan's kitchen, where the fire wasstill burning, and spreading it out upon the big table, took it topieces to see what could be done. And then she made a discovery whichdrew from her a cry of joy. The dress was _grenadine_, not tarlatan!Dear, ignorant reader, perhaps you do not know what this means? but welldid Miss Jane understand. 'Grenadine will wash!' she said to herselftriumphantly. She was a clever woman, and she was not unconscious of thefact. She could wash and starch with any professional. Accordingly, sheset to work with scissors and soap and starch and hot irons; but, aboveall, with love--love which makes the fingers cunning and the couragestrong.

  Mr Burton made his escape safely. He had reached the north gate beforethe dog-cart did, which came up for him just as the morning wasbreaking. With this delay it so happened that when he reached thestation to which he was bound, a brougham with a white horse appeared insight behind, and gave him a thrill of terror; it was not a likelyvehicle certainly for his pursuers; but still it was possible that theymight have found nothing more suitable had they got scent of him atDura. He sprang out of the dog-cart accordingly, and took refuge in oneof the corners of the station. It was a junction, and two early morningtrains, one up and one down, passed between four and five o'clock. Bothparties accordingly had some time to wait. Mr Burton skulking behindanything that would shelter him, made out, to his great amazement, thatthe other traveller waiting about was his friend Golden, accompanied bya cloaked and veiled woman. The fugitive grinned in ghastly satisfactionwhen he saw it. He had no desire just then to encounter Golden, and insuch companionship he was safe. It was a lovely morning, fresh and soft,cooler than July usually is, and the pair on the platform walked aboutin the sun, basking in it. He watched them from behind a line of emptycarriages. The woman, whoever she was, clung close to her companion,holding his arm clasped with both her hands; while Golden bent over her,with his face close to her veil. 'I wonder who she is? I wonder whatthey are doing here at this hour? I wonder if he has been to Dura? And,by Jove, to think of his going in for that sort of thing, as if he werefive-and-twenty!' Mr Burton said to himself. He was full of curiosity,almost of amazement, and he longed to go and sun himself on that sameplatform too; but he was a fugitive, and he dared not. How could he tellwho might be about, or what Golden's feelings were towards him? They hadbeen very good friends once; but Burton had stood by Golden but feeblyat the time of the trial about Rivers's, and Golden had not stood byBurton warmly during the time of difficulty which had culminated inruin. He watched them with growing curiosity, with a kind of interestwhich he could not understand--with--yes, he could not deny it, with acurious wistfulness and envy. He supposed the fellow was happy likethat, now? And as for himself, he was not happy--he was cold, weary,anxious, afraid. He had a prison before him, perhaps a felon'ssentence--anyhow, at the least, a loud, hoarse roar of English societyand the newspapers. If he could but succeed in putting the Channelbetween him and them! and there was that other man, as guilty ashimself, perhaps more guilty ('for he had not my temptations,' Mr Burtonsaid to himself; 'he had not a position to keep up, an expensiveestablishment, a family'), sunning himself in the full morning light,waiting for his train in the eye of day, not afraid of anybody--nay,probably at the height of pleasure and success, enjoying himself as ayoung man enjoys himself! When the pair approached a little closer tohis hiding-place than they had yet done, Burton, in his haste to get outof the way, slipped his foot, and fell upon the cold iron rails. He rosewith a curse in his heart, the poignancy of the contrast was too muchfor him. Had he but known that his appearance would have confounded hisold friend, and set all his plans to nought! Could he but have imaginedwho it was that clung to Golden's arm!

  But he did not. He saw the up-train arrive, and the two get into it. Hehad meant to go that way himself, feeling London, of all refuges, themost safe; but he had not courage to venture now. He waited for theother train going down into the country. He made a rapid calculation howhe could shape his course to the sea, and get off, if not as directly,perhaps more securely. He had found a dark overcoat in the dog-cart,which was a boon to him; he had poor Helen's flask of wine in hispocket. And as he got into the train, and dashed away out of the stationand over the silent, sunshiny country, where safety lay, Golden andGolden's companion went out of Mr Burton's mind. He had a hundred thingsto think of, and yet a hundred more. Why should he trouble himselfabout that?

  Thus the night disappeared like a mist from the face of the world; andthe 7th of July, an ordinary working day like the others,--Saturday, theend of a common week,--rose up business-like and usual upon a host oftoiling folk, to whom the sight of it was sweet for the sake of theresting day that came after it. Old Ann from Dura Den drove her cartwith the vegetables, and the big posy for the sick gentleman, underStephen's window, and wondered that it should still be closed, though itwas ten o'clock. Susan, very heavy-eyed and pale, was cleansing andwhitening her steps, upon which there had been so many footsteps lastnight.

  'Well, Susan, you _are_ late,' said old Ann.

  'Our folks were all at that ball last night,' said Susan, 'keeping abody up, awaiting for 'em till morning light.'

  'Well, well, young folks must have their diversions. We was fond of 'emoursels once on a day,' said the charitable old woman.

  Across the road the blinds were still down in the Rectory. The youngpeople were all asleep; and even the elder people had been overcome withweariness and the excitement through which, more or less, all of themhad gone. Before old Ann's cart resumed its progress, however, Stephen'swindow had been opened, and signs of life began to appear. About elevenMrs Drummond came down-stairs. She had slept for an hour, and on wakinghad felt assured that she must have been dreaming, and that all hervision of the night was a delusion; but her head ached so, and her facewas so pale when she looked at herself in the glass, that Helen trembledand asked herself if this was the beginning of a fever. Something musthave happened--it could not all be a dream. She knelt down to say herprayers in front of the table, where her picture, her idol, was. Andthen she saw a paper, placed upright beneath it, as flowers might be putat a shrine. She read it then, for the fi
rst time, on her knees. It wasthe paper that Reginald Burton had written, which she had taken from himin her weariness without being able to read it. Half-a-dozen lines, nomore. She did not understand it now; but it was enough, it was final. Noone, after this, could throw reproach or scorn upon her Robert's name.

  Robert! This night had been like a year, like a lifetime. It had madeher forget. Now she knelt there, and everything came back to her. Shedid not say her prayers; the attitude sometimes is all that theheavy-laden are capable of; of itself that attitude is an appeal to God,such as a child might make who plucked at its mother's dress to attracther notice, and looked up to her, though it could find no words to say.Not a word came to Helen's lips. She knelt and recollected, andthought--her mind was in a whirl, yet it was silent, not even forming awish. It was as if she held her breath and gazed upon something whichhad taken place before her, something with which she had no connection.'I have seen the wicked great in power, like a green bay-tree; and Ipassed again, and lo! he was not.' Was that the story, written in ruin,written in tears? And Robert! Where was he--he who had stretched out hishands to her in the depths of despair, from hell, from across theAtlantic, from--where?

  Helen rose up piteously, and that suspense which had been momentarilydispossessed by the urgency of more immediate claims upon her attention,came back again, and tore her heart in twain. Oh, they might think herfoolish who did not know! but who else except Robert could have seizedher very heart with those two up-stretched hands of Dives, hands thatcould have drawn her down, had she been there, out of the highestheaven? She could trust no longer, she thought, to the lukewarminterest of friends--to men who did not understand. She must bestirherself to find out. She must find out if she should die.

  Thus, with dry, bright eyes, and a fire new-lit in her heart whichburned and scorched her, she went down-stairs into the common world. 'Iwill bring your breakfast directly, 'm,' said Susan, meeting her in thepassage, and Helen went in to the old, ghostly drawing-room, the placewhich had grown so familiar to her, almost dear.

  Was it the old drawing-room she had lived in yesterday? or what strangevision was it that came across her of another room, far different, asummer evening as this was a summer morning, a child who cried 'Mamma,here is a letter!' Nothing--nothing! only a mere association, one of thetricks fancy plays us. This feverish start, this sudden swimming of thehead, and wild question whether she was back in St Mary's Road, or whereshe was, arose from the sight of a letter which lay, awaiting her, onthe centre of a little round table. It lay as that letter had lain someyears ago, in which he took his leave of her--as a hundred letters musthave lain since. A common letter, thrown down carelessly, without anymeaning. Oh, fool, fool that she was!