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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER IX.

  Mrs Burton was alone in her deserted house. The house was not desertedin the common sense of the word. Up-stairs at this very moment it wasbuzzing with life and movement; and at least the young men in thesmoking-room--men who had come from town, from their duties and theirpleasures, expressly for the ball--were commenting to each othercarelessly upon the absence of their host. 'Young Burton has been offfor six months on a wandering fit, and old Burton is up to the eyes inbusiness, as usual,' Cyril Rivers explained, who was not unfriendly tohis entertainers; while the Marchioness, with Lady Florizel in the roomof state up-stairs, who was commenting upon Clara's behaviour, anddeclaring her intention to leave next morning. 'Fortunately, Merewetherhas not committed himself,' the Marchioness was saying. In another roomof the house, Mrs Burton's two aunts, supported by their two maids,were shaking their heads together in mingled sorrow and anger. 'Dependupon it, something will come of all this,' Mrs Everest said, as she puton her nightcap; and Aunt Louisa cried, and exclaimed that when Claraentered on such an extravagant course, she always knew that somechastisement must come. 'I would shut that child up, and feed her onbread and water,' cried the stronger-minded sister; and so said themaids, who thought Miss Clary was bewitched--and with such a man!

  While all this was going on, little Mrs Burton was alone in theball-room, which was still blazing with lights. She was seated wearilyin a big chair at one end. But for her diamonds, which sought the light,and made a blaze of radiance round about her, like the aureole of asaint, she would have been invisible in the great, spacious, empty room.A deserted ball-room has been so often described, that I will not repeatthe unnecessary picture. This ball-room, however, had not a dismalaspect; everything was too well managed for that. The flowers, arrangedin great brilliant banks of colour, were not fading, but looked asbrilliant as ever; the lights shone as brightly. Except for some flowersdropped about from the bouquets of the dancers, some shreds of lace andtulle torn from their dresses, it might have been before instead ofafter the ball. Mrs Burton was seated at the further end. She sat quitemotionless, her hands crossed in her lap, her diamonds reflecting thelight. What a night this had been for her! The other parties concernedhad each had their share--her husband his ruin, her child her elopement;but this small woman with her hands clasped, with this crowded house toregulate and manage, with her part still to play in the world aroundher, knew all and had all to bear. She sat thus among the ruins, nothinghid from her, nothing postponed. Through her slight little frame therewas a dull throbbing of pain; but her head was clear, and did not lose ajot of all that fate had done, of all it had in store. She did notcomplain. She had foreseen much; she had gone forward with her eyesopen; she had even said that were her husband to be bankrupt in twodays, she would give a ball on the intermediate night. If it was a brag,she had excelled that brag; she had given her greatest ball, and reachedher apotheosis, on the very night when he was flying from justice. Andno good angel had interfered to soften to her the news of thesesuccessive blows. She had herself opened the ball with old LordBobadil--the man of highest rank present; and it was when she hadresumed her seat after that solemn ceremonial that Golden, whom shehated, approached her, and whispered in her ear the news of herhusband's ruin. She had been prepared for the news, but not then, nor atsuch a moment; nevertheless, she stood up and received the blow withouta cry, without a moment's failure of her desperate courage. Andeverything had gone on. She was always pale, so that there was nothingto betray her so far as that went, and her cares as hostess neverrelaxed. She went from side to side, dispensing her attentions, lookingafter everybody's comfort as if she had been a queen, and all the timeasking herself had he been taken? was he a prisoner? how much shameshould she have to bear? Then, when the slow hours had gone on, and theinsupportable din about her seemed as if it must soon come to an end,there arrived that other messenger of woe, poor kind Mrs Dalton, withtears in her eyes, and a voice which faltered. 'The rector has goneafter them. Oh, will you let me stay with you? Can I be of any use toyou?' Mrs Dalton had sobbed, attracting, as the other woman--the realsufferer--knew, the attention of those groups about, who had no right toknow anything of her private sorrows. 'It is not necessary. My fatheris here, and my aunts. I can have everything done that is wanted,' MrsBurton replied: and she had turned round to show some one who came toask her where the basket was with all the ribbons, and flowers, andpretty toys for the cotillion. Through all this she had stood herground. She had shaken hands with the last of her guests and had seenthe visitors to their rooms before she gave in; and even now she was notgiving in. Had any one entered the empty room, Mrs Burton would haveproved equal to the occasion; she would have risen to meet them--havetalked on any subject with perfect self-command. But, fortunately, noone came.

  Poor old Mr Baldwin had arrived at Dura only that night, he had heard agreat many disquieting rumours, and he was very unhappy about hisson-in-law's position, and about the way in which his daughter took it.Even the fact that she had her settlement scarcely consoled him; for hesaid to himself that the creditors would 'reflect' upon all thisextravagance, and that even about the settlement itself a great dealwould be said. He had hovered about her all the evening, lookingwistfully at her, inviting her confidence; but Mrs Burton had not said aword to him, even of her daughter's disappearance. She had felt noimpulse to do anything about Clary. Whether it was that all her energywas required to bear up against those successive blows, or if her prideshrank from informing even her own friends, or finally, if she felt ituseless, and knew that now no power on earth could compel theself-willed girl to return, it is certain that Mrs Burton had 'taken nosteps.' Even now she did not think of taking any steps. She allowed herfather and her aunts to go to bed without a word. She sat and pondered,and did nothing. Alone in that great blazing deserted room--alone in thehouse--alone in the world: this was what she felt. Out of doors thebirds were singing and the sun shining; but the closed windows admittedonly the palest gleam of the daylight. When the servants came to tellher that Mr Dalton was at the door, asking to see her, she sent him acivil message: 'Many thanks; but her father was with her, and could doall she wanted.' Then her maid came to ask if Mrs Burton did not wantanything, and was sent away with a wave of her hand. Then the butlercame timidly to ask should they shut up? was master to be expected? Atthat summons Mrs Burton rose.

  'I am tired,' she said, putting on her company calm; for Simmons thebutler was as important in his way as old Lord Bobadil. 'I was glad torest a little after all the worry. Yes, certainly, shut up, and leteverybody go to bed. I do not expect your master to-night.'

  'If I might make so bold, madam,' said Simmons, 'Tom the groom have justbeen in to say as orders was took to the stables to send the dog-cartfor master to the north gate, and as he took him up there and drove himto Turley station, and as he gave him this note, and said as it was allright.'

  'All right!' She repeated the words, looking at him with a ghastlybewilderment which frightened the man. And then she recovered herself,and resumed her former composure. 'That will do, Simmons. Your masterhad a--journey--to make. I was not aware he would have started so--soon.Have everything shut up as quickly as possible, and let all the servantsgo to bed.'

  She went up-stairs, emerging all at once into the full morning sunshinein the hall, which dazzled and appalled her. The light dazzled her eyes,but not her jewels, which woke at its touch, and blazed about her withliving, many-coloured radiance. A little rainbow seemed to form roundher as she went up-stairs. How her temples throbbed! What a dull achingwas in every limb, in every pulse! She went into Clara's room first. Shewas not a very tender mother, and never had been; yet almost every nightfor seventeen years she had gone into that room before retiring to herown. Clara's maid was seated, fast asleep, before a table on which acandle was burning pitifully in the full daylight. The room looked trimand still as a room does which has not been occupied in that earlybrightness. The maid woke with a shiver as Mrs Burton entered.

  'Oh, M
iss Clara, I beg your pardon!' she said.

  'It is no matter. My daughter will not want you to-night. Go to bed,Jane,' said Mrs Burton. 'And you can tell Barnes to go to bed. Neitherof you will be wanted. Go at once.'

  When she was left alone, she cast a glance round to see if there was anyletter. There was a little three-cornered note fastened on thepin-cushion. She took that into her hand along with her husband's note,which she held there, but did not attempt to read either. With a quickeye she noted that Clara's jewel-case and all the presents which hadbeen showered upon her that morning--her eighteenth birthday--had gone.A faint, mechanical smile came upon her face, and then she locked thedoor, and went to her own room.

  There she sat down again to think, with the diamonds still upon her andall her ornaments, and the two letters in her hand. Why should she readthem? She knew exactly what they would be. The one she did open after along pause was Clary's. The other--had she any interest in it? it gaveher a sensation of disgust rather: she tossed it on the table. Clary'snote was very short. It ran thus:--

  'DEAR MAMMA,--Feeling sure you never would consent, and as we both know we could not live without each other, I have made up my mind to leave you. I shall be Mrs Golden when you get this, for he has prepared everything. We start immediately for the Lakes, and I will write you from there. Of course it would have been nicer to have been Lady Somebody; but then I never saw any one who was half so nice as he is; and he hopes, and so do I, that you will soon make up your mind to it, and forgive us.

  'Your affectionate CLARY.

  'He bids me say it is to be at St James's, Piccadilly, and that if you inquire, you will find everything quite right.'

  Mrs Burton tossed this from her too on to the same table where thefather's letter lay unopened. The scorn with which they filled herstopped for a moment the movements of that wonderful machine forthinking which nothing had yet arrested. It was 'human nature' _pur etsimple_. Clara had taken her jewels, had made sure it was 'all right'about the wedding; and the father had sent the same message--'allright.' All right! A smile flitted across the pale, almost stern, littleface of the woman who was left to bear all this, and to bear it alone.Most other women would have made some passionate attempt to dosomething--to pursue the one or the other--to go to their succour. MrsBurton had no such impulse. She was like a soldier who has fought to thelast gasp; she stood still upon her span of soil, her sword broken, herbanner taken from her; nothing to fight for any longer, yet still, withthe instinct of battle, holding out, and standing firm. So long as therewas any excuse for keeping up the conflict, she would have borne everyblow like a stoic; what she could not bear was the thought of givingin; and the hour for giving in had come.

  Must it be told? Must she acknowledge before the world that all had beenin vain? that her husband was a fugitive, her daughter the victim of ascoundrel, her family for ever crushed down and trampled in the dust? Toeverything else she could have wound up her high courage. This was theonly thing that was really hard for her, and this was what she had todo. How much, she wondered, would she have to suffer? Probably Mr Burtonwould be taken, tried, share the fate which various men whose names sheknew had already borne. Should she have to go to him? to visit him inhis prison? to read her own name in the papers--'Mrs Burton spent anhour with the prisoner.' 'His wife was present!' She clasped her small,thin hands together. For a long time she had wondered whether when itcame she would feel it. She could have answered her own question now.Ruin, shame, public comment, sudden descent from her high estate,humiliation, sympathy, even pity--all these were before her; and itwould have been hard for her to say which was the worst.

  The young men roused her with their voices as they came up-stairs. Itwas not worth while going to bed, she heard one say; a bath, and then along walk somewhere before breakfast was the only thing possible. Thiscalled her attention to the clock striking on the mantelpiece. Sixo'clock! No longer night, but day! She rose, and took off her jewels andher evening dress. It troubled, and tired, and irritated her to do allthis for herself; but she succeeded at last. A nightly vigil, and evenall the emotion through which she had passed did not make the samedifference to her colourless countenance which it would have done to amore blooming woman. When she knocked at her father's door, and went into his bedside to speak to him, he thought her looking very much asusual. He thought he must have overslept himself, which was likelyenough, considering how late he had been last night; and that she hadcome to call him and have a chat with him before all her fine peoplecame down to breakfast. It was kind of Clara. It showed, what he hadsometimes doubted, that she was still capable of recollecting that shewas his child.

  'I have come to tell you of some things that have happened,' she said,sitting down in the big chair by the bed, 'and to ask your advice andhelp. Some strange things have happened to-night. In the first place,papa, you were a true prophet. Mr Burton has been obliged to go away.'

  'To go away?'

  'Yes, to escape, to fly--whatever you call it. He is--ruined. I supposehe must be worse than ruined,' she added quietly; 'for--I hear--thepolice----'

  'Oh, Clara! Oh, my poor, poor child!'

  'Don't be sorry for me, papa. Let us look at it calmly. I am not one tocry, you know, and get over it in that way. So far as I have heard yet,he has got off: he reached Turley station this morning, I suppose intime for the train. Most likely he has money, as he has not asked forany, and he may get safely off. Stop, papa; that is not all I have totell you. There is something more.'

  'Clara, my own poor girl! there can be nothing so bad.'

  'Some people would think it worse,' she said. 'Papa, don't say any morethan you can help. Clara has--eloped. She has gone off with Mr Golden,whom you all forgave, whom I hated, who was--her father's friend.'

  The old man gave a great cry. Clary was his grandchild, whom he adored.He loved her with that fond, caressing, irresponsible love which issometimes sweeter than even a parent's love for his own child. It wasfor others to find fault with, to correct, her; the grandfather hadnothing to do but admire, and pet, and praise. 'Clary!' it was but theother day that he told her stories as she sat on his knee!

  'Yes, Clary. Here is her note, and here is--Mr Burton's. They are bothgone. All this has happened since last night.'

  'Clara, what o'clock is it now?'

  'Half-past six,' she said, mechanically taking out her watch, 'andfortunately nobody will be stirring for some time at least. Papa, whatare you going to do?'

  'I am going to get up,' he said. 'Clara, there is still time. If I canget up to town by the first train, I may be in time to stop it yet.'

  'To stop--what?'

  'The marriage, child, the marriage! Clary's destruction! Go away, mydear, and let me get up.'

  'It would be of no use,' she said. 'Papa, when Clary has made up hermind, nothing that we can say would stop her. You might do it by law,perhaps; but she will never come home again--never hear reason. I knowher better. There were a great many things I wanted to ask about----'

  'Leave me just now, for heaven's sake, Clara! I must try, at least, tosave the child.'

  She rose without another word, and went away. A smile once more stoleupon her face, and stayed there, rigid and fixed. He might have been ofa little help to herself; but he thought of Clary first--Clary, who wasobstinate, and whom nothing could move--who was coaxing and winning tothose who loved her, and would persuade the old man to anything. Well,Mrs Burton said to herself, she had hoped for his help for a moment; butnow it was clear that she must do everything for herself.

  She went down-stairs, and took down a cloak which hung in the hall, andwrapping it about her, stepped out into the fresh air. That, at least,might help her, though nothing else would. She walked down to theavenue, to the skirt of the woods. Like a cordial the soft air breathedabout her, and gave her a certain strength. She was not a woman whocared about the meaner delights of wealth; all these she would havegiven up without a pang. But to exchange this large, free, loft
y lifewhich she had been leading for the restrained and limited existence ofher father's house--to be no longer entire mistress of her own actions,but to be bound by her father's antiquated notions, by what AuntEverett and Aunt Louisa thought proper--that would be hard to bend hermind to. To give up Dura for Clapham! Even that she could do stoically,and no one would ever be the wiser. But to bear all the shame, all thecomments, a husband in prison, a story of romance of real life, ruin ofthe father, elopement of the daughter, in the newspapers! Mrs Burtongave no outward sign of the struggle that went on within her, but sheclasped her little thin white hands together, and she recognised atonce, wholly and clearly, without any self-deception, what she wouldhave to bear.

  She waited there till her father came up to her on his way to thestation. He stopped and told her he would come back as soon as he could.

  'Most likely I will take Clary to Clapham first,' he said. 'Better thanhere, don't you think? She might be frightened to face you after herfolly. My dear, take a little courage, if you can. The innocent childhas given us all the clue that is necessary--St James's, Piccadilly. Nomarriage could take place before eight o'clock, and I shall reach theresoon after--in time to prevent that, at least. I will take her toClapham, and then, my dear, I will come straight back to you.'

  'Very well, papa,' she said.

  In her heart she wondered at his simplicity, at the folly of his hopes;but what was the use of saying anything? If it pleased him to do this,if this was what he thought best, why, let him do it. Let every one actas it seemed good in his own eyes.

  'And by-the-by, Clara, one thing more,' he said--'Ned's address. Whereis he now? I must telegraph at once for him.'

  Then some faint semblance of the tigress guarding her young appeared inMrs Burton.

  'Ned! Why should Ned be brought home? Why should he be involved introuble he has nothing to do with? He is out of it; he, at least, issafe. No, papa; I will not have him brought back.'

  'Clara, you are mad, you are incomprehensible!' cried her father. 'Giveme the boy's address.'

  'I will not,' she answered, looking at him.

  The woman had come to light in her at last--the woman and something ofthe mother. As a daughter she had neglected none of the observances ofrespect. She had been dutiful, though she had long been an independentagent, and had forgotten the very idea of obedience. But never had shedefied her father before. She did it now calmly, as she did everything.She had upheld her family and its importance as long as mortal strengthcould do it; and now when that had failed, she could at least defend herboy.

  'Clara, you astonish me. I could not have believed it of you,' said herfather severely.

  But he had no time to remonstrate or to command. He had to hurry awayfor his train. And she stood and looked after him, her breath for thefirst time quickened with excitement, her resolution bringing a certaincolour to her cheek. Ned was safe, and out of all this trouble. It wasthe only gleam of comfort in her clouded sky. He who should bring herboy back to undergo all this shame and suffering was her enemy, thoughit were done on the specious pretence of serving her. To bring her sonback to support and help her would be to do her the last and cruellestwrong. She could do without the help and support. She was ready to bearanything, since it must be borne. What relief could it afford her toknow that another suffered too, and that other her son? She went back tothe house with quickened steps under the sway of the thought, that Ned,at least, was safe and out of it. She was not the kind of woman whowould complain of bearing anything alone.

  Breakfast was a very late and straggling meal that day at Dura; but MrsBurton was the first at the table--before even the young man who hadproposed a bath and a walk instead of sleep. The breakfast was assumptuous, as well served, as usual, and there were the same number ofservants about, the dogs, as usual, on the lawn, the man with thepost-bags, as usual, visible, coming up the avenue. The ordinary eyewould have seen no indication of any change. But Mrs Burton made a calmlittle speech to every new group, which had the most curiouslydisconcerting effect upon her guests. She said to them that familycircumstances compelled her to make preparations at once for leavingDura; that some things had happened which she need not tell themof--family events--which had changed all her arrangements. She hoped,under these circumstances, they would pardon her, if she saidplainly----

  'Oh, yes, certainly. Not another word,' the visitors cried, dismayed.They all gazed at each other, and whispered over their teacups when herback was turned. They heard her say the same thing to one party afteranother--even to the Marchioness herself, who had come down fullyprimed, meaning to overwhelm Mrs Burton with a theatrical leave-taking.

  'Why, why, why!' she cried in her wrath, 'you mean that you want to--getrid of us, Mrs Burton!' and her hair stood on end upon her noble head.

  'I am afraid, without making any mystery of it, that is what I do mean,Lady Upshire,' said the woman, who was only the wife of a rich Cityman--a _parvenue_, one of the _nouveaux riches_--fixing her blue eyescalmly upon her splendid guest.

  'What pluck she has!' the young men said to themselves. They almostcheered her for her dauntless front. And they were all gone by twoo'clock--Marchioness and maid, guardsman and public servant--everyvisitor, gentle and simple. They disappeared as if by magic. Whatquestions they asked each other, what speculations they entertainedamong themselves, Mrs Burton neither knew nor cared. The first thing wasto be free of them; and when the afternoon came, she was alone with thestartled servants and her two aunts, to whom as yet she had given noexplanations, and whose private opinion, stated a hundred times thatmorning, was, that at last beyond all controversy Clara must be mad.