CHAPTER XI.
Mrs Burton took her new problem away with her into the quiet of herroom. It was a question which had never occurred to her before. Some fewfirst principles even an inquiring mind like hers must take for granted,and this had been one of them. She had no love for money, and nocontempt for it--it was a mere commonplace necessity, not a thing to bediscussed; and though she had a high natural sense of honour andhonesty, in her own person, it had not occurred to her to consider thatin such a matter she had anything to do but to accept the arrangementwhich was according to law and common custom, an arrangement which, ofcourse, had been made (theoretically) in view of a calamity such as hadjust happened. It was the intention of her settlement, and of allsettlements, she said to herself, to secure a woman against the chancesof her husband's ruin. She, in most cases, was entirely irresponsiblefor that ruin. She had nothing to do with it, and was unable to preventit. She had married with the belief that she herself and her childrenwould be provided for, and the first duty of her friends was to makesure that it should be so. Up to this point there was no flaw in theargument. Mrs Burton knew that she had brought her husband a goodfortune; and her future had been secured as an equivalent. It was likebuying a commission--it was like making an investment. She had put in somuch, she had a right to secure to herself absolutely the power oftaking it out again, or recovering what had been hers. Mr Burton had notincurred his liabilities with her knowledge or consent; he had neverconsulted her on the matter. He had never said or even hinted to herthat her expenditure was too great, that he could not afford it. True itwas possible that fastidious persons might blame her for proceeding solong on her splendid course, after hints and rumours had reached herabout her husband's position; but these were nothing more than rumours.She had no sort of official information, nothing really to justify herin making a sudden change in her household, which probably would haveaffected Mr Burton's credit more than her extravagance. She was in noway responsible. She had even protested against the re-introduction ofGolden into his affairs. She could not blame herself for anything shehad done; she had always been ready to hear, always willing to give himher advice, to second him in any scheme he propounded to her. She putherself at the bar, and produced all the evidence she knew of, on bothsides of the question, and acquitted herself. The money she could havesaved by economy was not worth considering in the magnitude of MrBurton's affairs. She had done nothing which she could feel had made herhis accomplice in his wrong-doing.
And she had no right to balk her father in his care for her--toestablish a bad precedent in regard to the security of marriagesettlements--to put it in the power of any set of creditors to upbraidsome other woman whose view of her duty might be different. She had noright to do it. She had to think not of herself only, but of all themarried women who slept serenely in the assurance that, whateverhappened, their children's bread was secure. She reflected that such astep would put an end to all security--that no woman would venture tomarry, that no father would venture to give his child to a man inbusiness, if this safeguard were broken down. It would be impossible. Itwould be a blow aimed at the constitution of the country--at the bestbulwark of families; it would be an injustice. Of all a commercial man'screditors, surely his wife was the one claimant who had most right tocome first. Others might be partially involved; she had put everythingin his hands. Without this safeguard she would not have married him, shewould not have been permitted to marry him. Going over the questioncarefully, Mrs Burton felt, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she hadright on her side.
She had right on her side--but she had not Ned. This was a verydifferent matter--an argument such as she had scarcely ever taken intoconsideration before. Mrs Burton did not disdain the personal argument.She knew that in the confused state of human affairs, in the intricaterange of human thoughts, it was often impossible to go upon pure reason,and that personal pleas had to be admitted. But she had neverconsciously done this before. She was almost scornful of her ownweakness now. But she could not help herself. She had to suffer theentrance of this great personal argument, if with a mental pang yetwithout resistance. She loved her son. All that reason could do for her,all the approbation of her own judgment, the sense of right, the feelingthat her position was logically unassailable, would not be enough toconsole her for the illogical, unreasoning disapproval of her boy. Forthe first time in her life, with a great surprise, this certainty seizedupon her. Up to this time she had gone her own way, she had satisfiedherself that she was right according to her own standard, and she hadnot cared what any one said or thought. But now all at once, withwonder, almost with shame, she found that she had descended from thishigh eminence. A whole host of foolish, childish, unreasonableprinciples of action, inconsequences, and stupidities were suddenlyimported into her mental world by this apparition of Ned. Not the mostcertain sense of right that reasoning creature ever had, wouldneutralise, she felt, that pained and wondering look in her son's eyes.If he disapproved it would be a cold comfort to her that reason was onher side. If this indignant, impatient, foolish young soul protestedagainst her that what she did would not bear comparing with somefantastic visionary standard which he called honour, what would it availher that by her own just standard of weight and measure she was notfound wanting? Thus all Mrs Burton's principles and habits, her ways ofthinking, the long-exercised solitary irresponsible power of herintelligence, which had guided her through life for forty years, wereall at once brought to a sudden stand-still by the touch, by the breathof that thing called Love, which, she knew not how, had suddenly come inupon her like a giant. This new influence paralysed the fine, delicate,exquisite machinery, by which hitherto all her problems had been workedout. She tried to struggle against it, but the struggle was ineffectual.It was the first time she had felt herself, acknowledged herself, to beacting like a fool! What then? She could not help it. Even in the clear,cold daylight of her mind the entrance of this new force, all shadowy,mysterious, wonderful, could not be contested. She threw down her armsonce more. She had been beaten terribly, miserably in the battle of herlife--she was beaten sweetly, wonderfully now, in a way which melted herhardness and made the disused heart beat and tremble strangely withinher, in the other world where reason hitherto had reigned supreme.
But nothing more was said on the subject for some time. Next morningbrought letters, which roused the little party once more intoexcitement. There was one from Mr Burton, informing his wife that he hadgot safely to France by a way little used, and was now in the smallseaport of St Servan, awaiting letters from his family, and theiradvice as to what was best. He had not meant to go there, but a chanceencounter with Golden at the station had driven him to take thedown-train instead of the up-train. He would remain there if he could,he added, until he heard from home; but if any alarm came would hastenacross the country to Brest, from whence he could get off to America. MrBurton did not say a word of apology or explanation, but he begged tohave news 'of all,' to be told 'how people were taking it,' and to havethe newspapers sent him. He added in a P.S. the following question: 'Bythe way, what could Golden be doing at Turley Station, seven miles fromDura, at four o'clock in the morning? And who could the lady be who waswith him? If you hear anything on this subject, let me know.'
Clara's letter was from Windermere. It was full of effusiveness andenthusiasm, hoping that dearest mamma would forgive them. Papa, Charleshad told her, was not likely to be in a position to forgive any one, butwould want it himself, which was very dreadful; but was it not beautifulof Charles, and showed how generous and true he was, that papa's ruinmade no difference to his feelings? This reflection, Clara said, madeher so happy, that she felt as if she could even forgive papa--for if hehad not been so rash and so wicked she never would have known how muchher dear Charles loved her. They were coming back to London in afortnight from this heavenly lake, and would start then on a roundaboutjourney to Charles's delightful 'place' on the Mediterranean. And, oh!Clara hoped with effusion, dearest mamma would see them, and forgive
them, and believe that she never had been so happy in her life as whenshe signed herself dear mamma's ever affectionate Clara Golden. Thesewere the letters that came to the little party at Dura on the morningafter Ned's arrival. They were received with very different feelings bythe three. Mr Baldwin, on the whole, was pleased. He was pleased withthe 'love to grandpapa,' with which Clara wound up her letter; and hewas glad the child was happy at least. 'What is done cannot be undone,'he said; 'and that is quite true about there being nothing mercenary init, you know.' Mrs Burton gave a faint smile as she laid the lettersdown one after another. They were just such letters as she expected. Hadshe been alone, perhaps, she would have tossed them from her in scorn,as she had done with the previous notes; but that had been in a momentof strong excitement, when she was not full mistress of herself; andwhat was the good, Mrs Burton thought, of quarrelling with your own whomyou cannot alter; or of expecting sense and good taste where suchqualities did not exist? From these two, her husband and her daughter,she did not expect any more.
But poor Ned was utterly cast down by these epistles. He asked himself,as Norah had done when Mr Rivers left her at the door of the Academy'sExhibition, was this natural? was this the way of the world? and, likeNorah, felt his own distress doubled by the horrible thought that tothink of your own comfort first and above all, and to be utterly unmovedby the reflection that you have caused untold misery to others, is thenatural impulse of humanity. He was so sad, and looked so humbled, thathis mother's heart was penetrated in her new enlightenment by a strangeperception of how he was feeling. She was not so feeling herself. Thesight of selfishness, even on so grand a scale, did not surprise norshock her; but she felt what he was feeling, which was as strange to heras a new revelation. The family at Dura during these days were like abeleaguered city--they lived encircled in a close round, if not ofenemies, yet of observant, watchful spectators, who might becomeenemies at any moment, who might note even the postmark on theirletters, and use that against them. Whenever a step was heardapproaching the door, a little thrill went through them. It might besome one coming to announce deeper misfortune still. It might be someone who dared to be insolent, some one who had a right to curse anddenounce. The tension of their nerves was terrible, the strain ofwatchfulness, and the pain of standing secretly and always on theirdefence.
'Let us go, let us go, Clara, I cannot stay here any longer; now that weknow where to write to them, let us go,' cried Mr Baldwin after theletters had been read and discussed; and then the old man went out totake a melancholy walk, and ponder what it would be best to do. Shouldthey go back to Clapham? or should he take his poor child away somewherefor 'change of air'? If ever any one wanted change of air surely Claramust.
'Ned, come here,' said Mrs Burton, when they were left alone. He wentand sat down by her, listless, with his hands in his pockets.Notwithstanding the joy of last night, the letters, the shame and ruinand misery, had overwhelmed Ned.
'I have been thinking over what you said yesterday about my settlement,'said his mother. 'Ned, in one way your grandfather was right. It is theequivalent to my fortune. It was the foundation of our familylife--without that I should not have been permitted to marry; I shouldnot probably have chosen to marry. To give up that is to make an end ofall the securities of life--I speak as arguing the question.'
'How can _we_ argue the question?' cried Ned. 'What have the securitiesof life mattered to the others, who had no connection with--with myfather? He was nothing to them but a man of business. They trusted him,and they have nothing left.'
'Yes, Ned; but if one of them had been a secured creditor, as it iscalled, you would not have expected him to give up his security, inorder to place himself on an equal level with the others. The mostvisionary standard of honour would never demand that.'
'We are not secured creditors. We are part of him, sharing hisresponsibility,' cried Ned bitterly, 'sharing his shame.'
'But we are the first of all his creditors, all the same, in justice;and our debt is secured. Ned, I do not say this is what I am going todo; but I think, according to my judgment, your grandfather is right.'
'Then, mother----' He had risen up, his face had grown very pale, hisnostrils dilated, his eyes shining. She who had never been afraid foranything in her life was afraid of her son--of his indignation, of hiswrath. She put out her hand, half appealing, half commanding, to stophim. She caught at him, as it were, before he could say another word.
'Ned, hear me out first! I approve of it as a matter of justice. I thinkwe have no right to set up a new standard to make a rule for other womenin my position. There will always be such, I suppose. The settlementitself was simply a precaution against this possible thing--which hashappened. But I do not say I mean to act according to my opinion. Thatis different. I have--thought it over, Ned.'
'Mother,' he said, melting almost into tears, and taking her hand intohis, 'mother! you who are so much wiser than I am--you are going to letyourself be guided by me?'
'Yes,' she said. 'I don't quite make myself out, Ned. I have alwaystaken my own way. Mine is the right way, the just way; but perhaps yoursis the best.'
'Mother, mother dear! I am awfully miserable; but I feel as if I couldtell you how happy I am, now.'
And, without another word of preface, without a pause to hear her out,without even observing the bewildered look as of one stopped inmid-career with which she regarded him, Ned dashed into the story of hisown love, of his despair and his joy. She listened to him with her blueeyes dilating, looking out of her pale face like stars out of a wintersky--suddenly stiffened back into a little silent stone-woman. She wasbewildered at first and thrown off her balance. And then gradually,slowly, the new impatience and faith that had been born of love died inher, and the old, cold, patient toleration, the faint smile, came back.It was natural. His own affairs, of course, were the closest to him. Hethought of his private story first, not of hers. She had never subjectedherself to such a shock before, and did not know how hard it was tobear. Well! but what of that? That was her own folly, not any oneelse's. She had put aside her armour, thrown open her breast, for thefirst time; and if an arrow, barbed and sharp, was the first thing thatcame to it, that was but natural--it was her own fault. She sat,therefore, and listened with the faint smile even now stealing abouther lips--a smile that was half at herself, half at human nature, thusonce more, once again, proving itself. And Ned, who had felt so bitterlythe absorption of his father and sister in their own affairs, theirindifference to the feelings of others--Ned did the same. He slurredover the sacrifice which his mother, at no small cost, was bending herown will to make, and rewarded her by the story of his own boyishhappiness--how Norah had cast him off once, how she loved him now. Thiswas the best, the only return he could make to her. From her ownserious, weighty purpose, which involved (she felt) so much, he led heraside to his love-tale, of which, for the moment at least, it wasmadness to expect that anything could come.
'But you don't say anything?' he said at last, half offended, when hehad done--or rather when her failure of response had stopped the fulnessof his speech.
'I don't know what I can say,' she answered, with a coldness which hefelt at once. 'This seems scarcely the time--scarcely the moment--'
'Of course,' he said hurriedly, 'I do not expect nor hope that it can bevery soon.'
'No one, I should think, would be so mad as to expect that,' said hismother; 'and these long, aimless engagements, without any visibleend----'
'I do not see how my engagement can be thought aimless,' he said,growing hot.
'Not in your own mind, I suppose; but, so far as anything like marriageis concerned, considering the state of affairs generally, I do not seemuch meaning in it,' said Mrs Burton coldly. 'Your prospects are notbrilliant. It was only last night, for instance, that you proposed toburden yourself with me.'
'Mother!'
'It is quite true. In answer to your grandfather's sensible question howI was to live, you answered: with you. D
id you mean, upon somehypothetical engagement, whatever you may happen to get, to support awife--and me?'
He made no answer. A hot flush of mingled anger and pain came over him;he was wrong somehow; he did not quite see how. He had missed the rightway of making his announcement, but still it was not his fault. He couldnot see how he was to blame.
'You must not be surprised in these circumstances if I cannot make anyvery warm congratulations,' she added. 'Make your mind easy, however,Ned. I never intended to be a burden on you; but even without that----'
'What have I done, mother, that you should speak to me so?' he cried.'You were so different just now. It is not for Norah's sake? No onecould dislike Norah. What have I done?'
'Nothing,' she said; and then, with that faintest smile, 'you have actedaccording to your nature, Ned--like the rest. I have no reason tocomplain.'
Then there was a pause. He was a generous, tender-hearted boy, full oflove and sympathy; but he had never so much as imagined, could notimagine, the state of feeling his mother had been in--and, accordingly,could not understand where he was wrong. Wrong somehow, unknowingly,unintentionally--puzzled, affronted, sore at heart--he went away fromher. Was it mere caprice on her part? What was it? So it happened thatthe boy put his foot upon his mother's very heart; and then strained allhis faculties, anxiously, affectionately, to find out what had made hercountenance change, and could not, with all his efforts, discover whatit was.
The smile remained on Mrs Burton's face when she was left alone. He haddeclined to hear her decision about the settlement. Was it not naturalthat she should reconsider it, now that she found how little interest hetook in the matter? But it is easier to let that intruder Love, whodisorders reason, into a woman's heart than to turn him out again. Shedid again another novel thing; she made a compromise. She sent for herfather at once, and entered into the matter with him. 'I allow that allyou say is perfectly just,' she said; 'but this is, partly, a matter offeeling, papa.' She smiled at herself as she said it, but yet did sayit, without flinching. 'I will keep a portion of my settlement--sayhalf. It is, as you said, the only thing I have to depend on.'
'My dear,' said poor Mr Baldwin, 'of course you have always me to dependon. You are my only child. What I have must come to you, Clara.'
'But I don't want it to come to me, papa.'
'No, that I am sure you don't; but what is the use of my money to me,but to make my child and her children comfortable--that is excepting,Clara--always excepting what I feel bound to do--what I have alwaysdone--in the cause of--God. But, all the same, I cannot approve of anysacrifice of your rights.'
'I would rather not say any more about it,' she said.
And thus for the moment the discussion terminated. Ned went down to thevillage again, and was made happy, almost quite happy, by a talk withNorah; and they went over together to the Rectory, and told Mrs Dalton,as a substitute for the absent mother, and were very wretched and veryhappy together over their miserable prospects and their rapture of earlylove. Norah, however, was sorry that he had told his mother soprematurely. 'She will think it heartless of us, Ned, to think of beinghappy when she must be so miserable. Oh, I would have broken it to hervery gently. I would have told her how it happened--by accident--that wedid not mean anything. Oh, Ned, boys are always so awkward. You havegone and made her think!'
'If you were to come and talk to her, Norah--'
'No, indeed. What am I to her? A little upstart thing, thrusting myselfin, taking away her son. Oh, Ned, how could you? Go and give her a kiss,and say we never meant it. Say I would never, never think of such athing while everybody is in such trouble. Say we are so sorry--Oh, Ned!how can you, you who are only a boy, be half sorry enough?'
With which salutary bringing down Ned went home, and was very humble tohis mother and very anxious to win back her confidence--an attempt inwhich he partly succeeded; for, having once begun to open her heart, shecould not altogether close it; and a new necessity, a new want, haddeveloped in her. But he never made his way back entirely into thatplace which had been his for a moment, and which he had forfeited by hisown folly. He never quite brought back the state of mind in which shehad considered that matter of the settlement first. Next day Mrs Burtonleft Dura with her father, 'on a visit,' it was said; and Ned went totown, 'to see after' his father's affairs. Poor boy! there was not muchthat he could see after. He worked hard and laboriously, under hisgrandfather's directions and under the orders of the people who had thewinding-up of Mr Burton's concerns in hand; but he had not experienceenough to do much out of his own head; and it was in this melancholy waythat his knowledge of business began.
And poor little Norah, alone in the Gatehouse, went and poured out herheart to Mr Stephen, who listened to her with a heart which throbbed toevery woe of hers. A great woe was hanging over the Haldanes, a troublewhich as yet they but dimly foresaw. Burton had ruined them in hisprosperity, and now, in his downfall, was about to drag them stilllower. Already the estate of Dura was in the market, with its mansion,and grounds, and woods, and farms--and the Gatehouse. They had got tofeel that the Gatehouse was their home, and all Stephen's happiness wasconnected with that window, with the tailor and shoemaker who took theirevening walks on the other side of the way, with the rector and hismorning discussions, even with old Ann in her market cart. And how washe now to go away and seek another refuge? Heavy were the hearts in theGatehouse. Norah, when Ned had gone, was overwhelmed by terrors. Fearslest her mother should not approve, wondering questions about herunknown father, doubts of Mrs Burton, fears of Ned and for Ned, cameupon her like a host, and made her miserable. And then Mr Rivers camedown, who had already made several attempts to see her, and this timemade her wretched by succeeding and telling her another love tale, towhich she could make no reply. But for that incident at the Exhibition,and the pain it had brought about, things might have ended otherwise.Had Cyril Rivers made up his mind in May instead of delaying till July,the chances were that Norah, flattered, pleased, and not unwilling tosuppose that she might perhaps love him in time, would have given avery different answer. And then she asked herself in dismay, what wouldhave happened when poor Ned came? So that, on the whole, it was for thebest, as people say. The pain and shock of that discovery which she hadmade when Lady Rivers drew her son away--and he went--had been for thebest; though it would be hard to believe that Cyril thought so, as hewent back mortified to town, feeling that it had cost him a great dealto make this sacrifice, and that his sacrifice had been in vain.
Thus Dura changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. The greathouse was empty and desolate; the great bell pealed no more through allthe echoes; the noisy comings and goings of the Burtons, the sound ofthem as they moved about, the dash of Mr Burton's phaeton and his wife'sfine horses, had all died out into the silence. Miss Jane ploddedwearily about the village, trying to find some cheap cottage whereStephen could find refuge when the property was sold. And Norah, anxiousand pale, and full of many terrors, lived alone in her end of the house,and watched for the postman every morning, and wondered, wondered, tillher heart grew sick, why no letters came.
Where was Helen? She had disappeared from them into the unknown, as herhusband had done. Was it into Hades, into the everlasting darkness, thatshe had followed her lost, as Orpheus followed Eurydice? A week passed,and the silent days crept on, and no one could tell.
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