At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER VII.

  Nothing happened, however, to justify Drummond's fears. The success ofRivers's in its new form was as great and as steady to all appearance asthat of its ancient phase. People vied with each other in rushing intoit, in crowding its coffers and its share lists. Stephen Haldane, 'leftto himself,' according to Mr Burton's instructions, had long sincedeposited all he had in its hands; and almost all of Robert'sprofessional friends who had any money to invest, invested it in thebank which had an R.A. upon the roll of directors. People came to him toask his advice who in other times would have given him theirs freely,with no such respect for his judgment. But though this was the case, andthough ignorant persons in society sometimes wondered how he could makethe two occupations compatible, and carry on business and art together,yet the fact was that business and Robert had very little to do witheach other. He went to the meetings of the directors now and then. Hewas blandly present sometimes at an auditing of accounts. He listened attimes to the explanations given by Mr Golden, the manager, and foundthem everything that was reasonable and wise. But beyond that he cannotbe said to have taken much part in the management. For this mild part hewas abundantly rewarded--so abundantly that he sometimes felt halfashamed, reflecting that the clerks in the offices actually contributedmore to the success of the place than he did, though they did not profithalf so much. He felt himself justified in taking a nice house in thecountry, though not at Dura, at the end of the first season, and he gavehis wife a pretty little carriage with two ponies on her birthday, inwhich she drove about with a pleasure perhaps more real than that whichany other circumstance of their prosperity gave her. They did not leavetheir house in St Mary's Road, for it was dear to them in many ways, andstill satisfied all their wants; and Robert could not tolerate the ideaof another painter using the studio he had built, or another womanenjoying the conservatory which had been made for Helen. 'However richwe may grow--even if we should ever be able to afford that house in ParkLane--we must keep this,' he said; 'no profane foot must come in, nostranger intrude upon our household gods; and Norah must have it afterus, the house she was born in.' Thus they planned their gentle romance,though they had been a dozen years married and more, and bought thehouse they loved with their first disposable money. And Robert stillloved his work and kept to it, though he did not need now to troubleabout the exhibitions and push on his picture, working from the earlymorning down to twilight to get it ready. He got a little lazy aboutfinished pictures, to tell the truth. Even Francesca, though he lovedher, had been put aside on the spare easel, and never completed. 'I willget up early and set to work in earnest to-morrow,' he always said; butto-morrow generally found him like the day before, making a study ofsomething--sketching in now one subject, now another--tormenting hiswife with questions as to which was best. She had a good deal to put upwith in this period; but she kept up under it and bore it all smilingly.And Robert, like so many more, made his sketches much better than hispictures, and put ideas upon his canvas which, if he could but havecarried them out, might have been great.

  Thus two years passed over the pair; and there were times when Helenthought, with a leap of her heart, that ease and leisure had done whatcare and toil could not do--had roused a spark of divine genius in herhusband's breast. Now and then he drew something that went right to herheart, and it was she who had always been his harshest critic. When shesaid to him one day suddenly, without purpose or meaning, 'I like that,Robert,' he turned round upon her all flushed and glowing, more radiantthan when he was made an R.A. It was not that he had supreme confidencein her knowledge of art, but that her backing of him, the support whichhe had longed for all these years, was more than the highest applause,and invigorated his very soul. But he was so pleased to have pleasedher, that he set up his sketch upon a bigger canvas, and worked at itand improved it till he had improved the soul out of it, and Helenapplauded no more. He was much mortified and disappointed at thisfailure; but then in his humility he said to himself, 'What does itmatter now? I am an R.A., which is the best I could be in my profession,so far as the world is concerned, and we have something else to standupon besides the pictures.' Thus he consoled himself, and so did she.

  And, in the mean time, Norah kept growing, and became a more distinctfeature in the household. She was a feature more than an agent still;though she was nearly twelve, not much was heard of her except thescales, which she still rattled over dutifully every morning, and thesnatches of songs she would sing in the lightness of her heart as shewent or came. On most ordinary occasions she simply composed such aforeground to the family picture as Maurice had seen that October night.She sat on a stool or on the floor somewhere, with a book clasped in herarms, reading; in summer she and her book together crouched themselvesagainst the window in the room, getting the last gleam of daylight, andin winter she read by the firelight, which crimsoned her all over with aruddy glow, and scorched her cheeks. Perhaps it was because she was keptconscientiously at work all day that Norah thus devoured all the booksshe could lay hands on in the evenings. She sat in her corner and read,and heard what was going on all the same, and took no notice. She readeverything, from Grimm's Tales and the Arabian Nights to Shakspere, andfrom Shakspere to Tennyson, with an undiscriminating, all-devouringappetite; and as she sat in a dream, lost in one volume after another,the current of life flowed past, and she was aware of it, and heard ahundred things she was unconscious of hearing, yet remembered yearsafter. She heard discussions between her father and mother which she wassupposed to pay no attention to. And she did not pay any attention tothem: but only innocently--an unconscious eavesdropper--heardeverything, and received it into her mind. This was the child's positionin the house; she was the centre of the picture--everything somehow borea reference to her; she alone was silent in the midst. The othertwo--who loved her, talked of her, planned for her, contrived thateverything that was pretty and pleasant and sweet should surround herwaking and sleeping--had yet no immediate need of Norah. They were eachother's companions, and she was the third--the one left out. But she wastoo young to feel any jealousy, or to struggle for a place between them.She had her natural place, always in the foreground, a silent creature,unconsciously observing, laying up provision for her life.

  'Are you not afraid to talk of everything before your daughter?' MrGolden said one day when she had left the room. 'You know the oldproverb, "Little pitchers have long ears."'

  'Afraid of--Norah?' said Robert. The idea was so extraordinary that helaughed first, though the moment after he felt disposed to be angry. 'Mychild understands what honour is, though she is so young,' he said withpaternal pride, and then laughed, and added, 'That is high-flown ofcourse, but you don't understand her, Golden; how should you? She is athousand times too deeply occupied to care for what we are saying.Pardon me, but the suggestion, to one who knows her, is so very absurd.'

  'Ah, you never know where simplicity ends and sense begins,' said thebank manager. He had become a frequent guest at St Mary's Road. He was aman of Mr Burton's type, but younger, slightly bald, perfectly brushed,clean, and perfumed, and decorous. He was a little too heavy for the_r?le_ of a young man in society: and yet he danced and flirted with thebest when an opportunity offered. He never spoke of the City when hecould help it: but he spoke a great deal about Lady So-and-so's party,and the fine people he knew. It was difficult to make out how he knewthem; but yet he visited, or professed to visit, at a great many of whatare called 'good houses.' As manager of the bank he had every man'sgood opinion--he was at once so enterprising and so prudent, with themost wonderful head for business. There was no one like him forinterpreting the 'movements' on the Stock Exchange, or the fluctuationsof the Funds. He explained business matters so lucidly that evenDrummond understood them, or at least thought he did. But there were agood many people who did not like Mr Golden. Helen for one had a naturalantipathy to the man. She allowed that she had no reason for it; that hewas very civil, sometimes amusing, and had never done anything she couldfind fault with. But s
he disliked him all the same. Norah was moredecided in her sentiments, and had a clearer foundation for them. He hadinsisted on disturbing her from her book one afternoon to shake handswith her; on another he had offered to kiss her, as a child, and shenearly twelve! 'But then you are so little of your age, Miss Norah. Idare say the gentleman took you for nine,' said the maid--an explanationwhich did not render Norah more favourably inclined towards the manager.And now he was trying to libel her, to traduce her to her father! EvenRobert himself was moved by this enormity; it shook his opinion of hiscounsellor. 'That is all he knows,' Drummond said to himself; and heresumed his conversation more distinctly than ever when Norah came back.

  In the mean time the Haldanes had thriven too, in their way. Stephen wasas helpless, as far from any hope of moving, as ever; but he was welloff, which alleviates much suffering. The walls of his room were hungwith Drummond's sketches, half a dozen of them, among which were twopictures of Norah. He lived in an arm-chair elaborately fitted withevery possible contrivance, with a reading-desk attached to its arm, anda table close by, which could be raised to any height: and his helplesslimbs were covered with a silken quilt of Mrs Haldane's own working.There he passed the day and night without change: but thanks to MissJane and her mother, no strange eye had looked upon the helpless man'shumiliation; they moved him from his chair to his bed, and dideverything for him. The bed was closed up by day, so that no strangermight suspect its existence; and the room was kept airy and bright bythe same unwearied watchers. Here he lived, making no complaint.Whatever his feelings might be, whatever the repinings in his mind, hesaid nothing of them to mortal ear. A shade of weariness the more uponhis face, a deeper line than usual between his eyes, were the onlytokens that now and then the deep waters overflowed his soul. And as forthe mother and sister, who were his slaves and attendants, they hadforgotten that there was anything unusual in his condition--they hadbecome accustomed to it. It seemed to them in some sort the course ofnature. And God knows whether unconsciously a feeling that it was 'forthe best' might not sometimes steal into their minds. He was theirs forever; no one could step in between them, or draw his heart from theirlove. Had it been suggested to Miss Jane that such a sentiment waspossible, she would have rejected it with horror; and yet in the depthsof her heart it was there, out of her own sight.

  And he had an occupation in his seclusion which was a blessing to him.He had become the editor of a little magazine, which belonged to his'denomination,' before he fell ill, and he had been allowed to retainthe post. This was the refuge of his mind in his trouble. Poor Stephen,he pleased himself with the idea of still influencing somebody, ofpreserving his intercourse with the outer world. It had been a veryhomely little publication when it came into his hands--a record of whatthe 'denomination' was doing; the new chapels it was building; theprayer-meetings gathered here and there, which might grow intocongregations; and the tea-parties, which furnished at once intellectualand social enjoyment for the people. But Stephen had changed that; hehad put his mind into it, and worked it into a sort of literary organ.There were reviews in it, and essays, and a great deal of discussion ofthe questions of the day. These were approached from the standing-groundof the denomination, it is true, but the discussions were often far frombeing denominational. Up to this time, however, the community gave nosigns of disapproval. Mr Baldwin favoured the magazine, and the writerof it was still popular, and not yet forgotten. They gave him some fiftypounds a year for this hard though blessed work which kept his mindalive; and his late congregation gave him fifty pounds; and the money inRivers's bank had last quarter paid ten per cent. of profit. He was welloff, he was indeed rich for his wants, though he was not rolling inwealth like Drummond. Money makes no man happy, but how much good itdoes! Nothing could make this poor man happy, rooted thus in hisimmovable calm; but his ten per cent. kept him in comfort, it gave himworship in the eyes of his people, who were not fond of poverty; itprocured to him his only consolation. He had no need to be indebted toany one; he could even help the poor people of his former flock, andfeel himself independent. He could buy books, and give such quietcomforts and pleasures as they could enjoy to the women who were so goodto him. All these were great alleviations of the sick man's lot. But forRivers's how different would his position have been! He would have beensubject to the constant inspection of deacons and brethren; he wouldhave been interfered with in respect to his magazine. All the comfortand freedom which remained to him were the result of the little morewhich made him independent and put him above criticism. What a poorthing money is, which cannot buy either health or happiness! and yetwhat a great thing! only the poor know how great.

  This time of prosperity had lasted for two years, when Mr Burtonwithdrew from the direction of the bank. He had enlarged his businessgreatly in another way, and had no longer time to bestow upon this; and,indeed, he had professed all along his desire to be free. This had beenthe object of the old company in taking in 'new blood,' and now the newcompany was able to proceed alone upon its triumphant way.

  'It is your turn to get into harness, Drummond,' he said, with a glancein which there was some contempt. Robert did not see the scorn, but helaughed with perhaps a little gentle confidence in his own power to beof use if he should choose to exert himself.

  'I must put myself into training first,' he said.

  'Golden will do that for you. Golden is the best coach for business Ihave ever come across,' said Mr Burton. 'He will put you up toeverything, good and bad--the dodges as well as the legitimate line.Golden is not a common man of business--he is a great artist in trade.'

  There was a certain elation in his air and words. Was he glad to haveshaken off the bonds of Rivers's, though they were golden bonds? Thiswas the question which Helen asked herself with a little surprise. Thetwo men were dining at St Mary's Road on the night after Burton'swithdrawal, and she was still at table, though they had begun to talk ofbusiness. As usual, she who took no part was the one most instructed bythe conversation. But she was bewildered, not instructed, by this. Shecould not make out what it meant. She knew by the best of all proofsthat the bank was profitable and flourishing. Why, then, did her cousinshow such high spirits? What was his elation about? Long after, sheremembered that she had noted this, and then was able to divine themystery. But now it only surprised her vaguely, like a foreign phrase inthe midst of the language she knew.

  'The dodges are amusing,' said Mr Golden. 'The legitimate drama is moredignified and imposing, but I rather think there is more fun in the workwhen you are living on the very edge of ruin. The hairbreadth escapesone has--the sense that it is one's own cleverness that carries onethrough--the delight of escaping from the destruction that seemed downupon you! There is nothing like that,' he said with a laugh, 'in thesteady platitudes of ordinary trade.'

  And Mr Burton laughed too, and a glance passed between them, such asmight have passed between two old soldiers who had gone many a campaigntogether. There was a twinkle in their eyes, and the 'Do you remember?'seemed to be on their very lips. But then they stopped short, and wentno further. Helen, still vaguely surprised, had to get up and go awayto the drawing-room; and what more experiences these two might exchange,or whether her husband would be any the wiser for them, she was nolonger able to see. Norah waited her in the other room. She had justcome to the end of a book, and, putting it down with a sigh, came andsat by her mother's side. They were alike in general features andcomplexion, though not in the character of their faces. Norah's hair wasbrighter, and her expression less stately and graceful than Helen's--shehad not so much _distinction_, but she had more life. Such a woman asher mother she was never likely to be, but her attractions would begreat in her own way.

  'How nice your velvet gown is, mamma!' said Norah, who was given to longmonologues when she spoke at all. 'I like to put my cheek upon it. WhenI am grown up, I will always wear black velvet in winter, and whitemuslin in summer. They are the nicest of all. I do not think that youare too old for white. I like you in white, with r
ed-ribbons. When I ama little bigger I should like to dress the same as you, as if we weretwo sisters. Mayn't we? Everybody says you look so young. But, mamma,ain't you glad to get away from those men, and come in here to me?'

  'You vain child!' said Helen. 'I can see you whenever I like, so it isno novelty to me; while papa's friends--'

  'Do you think they are papa's friends? I suppose there are no villainsnow-a-days, like what there are in books?' said Norah. 'The world israther different from books somehow. There you can always see howeverything happens; and there is always somebody clever enough to findout the villains. Villains themselves are not very clever, they alwayslet themselves be found out.'

  'But, my dear, we are not talking of villains,' said Helen.

  'No, mamma, only of that Mr Golden. I _hate_ him! If you and I wereawfully clever, and could see into him, what he means--'

  'You silly little girl! You have read too many novels,' said Helen. 'Inthe world people are often selfish, and think of their own advantagefirst; but they don't try to ruin others out of pure malice, as they doin stories. Even Norah Drummond sometimes thinks of herself first. Idon't know if she is aware of it, but still it happens; and though it isnot always a sin to do that, still it is the way that most sins comeabout.'

  This purely maternal and moral turn of the conversation did not amuseNorah. She put her arm round her mother's waist, and laid her cheekagainst the warm velvet of Helen's gown.

  'Mamma, it is not fair to preach when no one is expecting it,' she saidin an injured tone; 'and just when I have you all to myself! I don'toften have you to myself. Papa thinks you belong to him most. Often andoften I want to come and talk, but papa is so greedy: you ought to thinkyou belong to me too.'

  'But, my darling, you have always a book,' said Helen, not insensible tothe sweet flattery.

  'When I can't have you, what else am I to do?' said crafty Norah; andwhen the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, the two were stillsitting together, talking of a hundred things. Mr Golden came up, andtried very hard to be admitted into the conversation, but Norah walkedaway altogether, and went into her favourite corner, and Mrs Drummonddid not encourage his talk. She looked at him with a certain flutter ofexcited curiosity, wondering if there was anything under that smoothexterior which was dangerous and meant harm; and smiled at herself andsaid, No, no; enemies and villains exist only in books. The worst ofthis man would be that he would pursue his own ends, let them suffer whomight; and his own ends could not harm Drummond--or so at least Helenthought.