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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER XVI.

  I would not like to say what despairing thought Dr Maurice might havehad about his dinner in the first moment when he turned round and sawHelen Drummond's pale face under her crape veil, but there were manythoughts on the subject in his household, and much searchings of heart.John had been aghast at the arrival of visitors, and especially of suchvisitors, at such a moment; but his feelings would not permit him tocarry up dinner immediately, or to sound the bell, the note of warning.

  'I canna do it, I canna do it--don't ask me,' he said, for John was anorth-country-man, and when his heart was moved fell back upon his oldidiom.

  'Maybe the lady would eat a bit herself, poor soul,' the cook said ininsinuating tones. 'I've known folks eat in a strange house, for thestrangeness of it like, when they couldn't swallow a morsel in theirown.'

  'Don't ask me!' said John, and he seized a stray teapot and began topolish it in the trouble of his heart. There was silence in the kitchenfor ten minutes at least, for the cook was a mild woman till driven toextremities; but to see fish growing into wool and potatoes to lead wasmore than any one could be expected to bear.

  'Do you see that?' she said in despair, carrying the dish up to him, andthrusting it under his eyes. John threw down his teapot and fled. Hewent and sat on the stairs to be out of reach of her remonstrances. Butthe spectre of that fish went with him, and would not leave his sight;the half-hour chimed, the three-quarters--

  'I canna stand this no longer!' John said in desperation, and rushing upto the dining-room, sounded the dinner-bell.

  Its clang disturbed the little party in the next room who were sodifferently occupied. Helen was seated by the table with a pile ofpapers before her; her hands trembled as she turned from one to another,but her attention did not swerve. She was following through them everyscrap that bore upon that one subject. Dr Maurice had procured them allfor her. He had felt that one time or other she must know all, and thatthen her information must be complete. He himself was walking about theroom with his hands in his pocket, now stopping to point out or explainsomething, now taking up a book, unsettled and unhappy, as a mangenerally looks when he has to wait, and has nothing to do. He hadsought out a book for Norah, to the attractions of which the poor childhad gradually yielded. At first she had stood close by her mother. Butthe contents of those papers were not for Norah's eye, and Helen herselfhad sent her away. She had put herself in the window, her natural place;the ruddy evening light streamed in upon her, and found out between theblack of her dress and that of her hat, a gleam of brown hair, to whichit gave double brightness by the contrast; and gradually she fell intoher old attitude, her old absorption. Dr Maurice walked about the room,and pondered a hundred things. He would have given half he possessed forthat fatherless child who sat reading in the light, and forgetting herchildish share of sorrow. The mother in her mature beauty was little tohim--but the child--a child like that! And she was not his. She wasRobert Drummond's, who lay drowned at the bottom of the river, andwhose very name was drowned too in those bitter waters of calumny andshame. Strange Providence that metes so unequally to one and to another.The man did not think that he too might have had a wife and children hadhe so chosen; but his heart hankered for this that was his neighbour's,and which no magic, not even any subtle spell of love or protectingtenderness, could ever make his own.

  And Helen, almost unconscious of the presence of either, read throughthose papers which had been preserved for her. She read Golden's letter,and the comment upon it. She read the letter which Dr Maurice hadwritten, contradicting those cruel assertions. She read the furthercomments upon that. How natural it was; how praiseworthy was thevehemence of friends in defence of the dead--and how entirely withoutproof! The newspaper pointed out with a cold distinctness, which lookedlike hatred to Helen, that the fact of the disappearance of the bookstold fatally against 'the unhappy man.' Why did he destroy thoseevidences which would no doubt have cleared him had he acted fairly andhonestly? Day by day she traced the course of this controversy which hadbeen going on while she had shut herself up in the darkness. It gleamedacross her as she turned from one to another that this was why herenergy had been preserved and her strength sustained. She had not brokendown like other women, for this cause. God had kept her up for this. Thediscussion had gone on down to that very morning, when a littleeditorial note, appended to a short letter--one of the many which hadcome from all sorts of people in defence of the painter--had announcedthat such a controversy could no longer be carried on 'in these pages.''No doubt the friends of Mr Drummond will take further steps to provethe innocence of which they are so fully convinced,' it said, 'and itmust be evident to all parties that the columns of a newspaper is notthe place for a prolonged discussion on a personal subject.' Helenscarcely spoke while she read all these. She did not hear thedinner-bell. The noise of the door when Dr Maurice rushed to it withthreatening word and look, to John's confusion, scarcely moved her. 'Bequiet, dear,' she said unconsciously, when the doctor's voice in thehall, where he had fallen upon his servant, came faintly into herabstraction. 'You rascal! how dare you take such a liberty when you knewwho was with me?' was what Dr Maurice was saying, with rage in hisvoice. But to Helen it seemed as if little Norah, forgetting the cloudof misery about her, had begun to talk more lightly than she ought. 'Oh,my child, be quiet,' she repeated; 'be quiet!' all her soul was absorbedin this. She had no room for any other thought.

  Dr Maurice came back with a flush of anger on his face. 'These peoplewould think it necessary to consider their miserable dishes if the lastjudgment were coming on,' he said. He was a kind man, and very sorry forhis friend's widow. He would have given up much to help her; but perhapshe too was hungry, and the thought of the spoilt dishes increased hisvehemence. She looked at him, putting back her veil with a blank look ofabsolute incomprehension. She had heard nothing, knew nothing. Comfort,and dinners, and servants, and all the paraphernalia of ordinary life,were a hundred miles away from her thoughts.

  'I have read them all,' she said in a tone so low that he had to stoopto hear her. 'Oh, that I should have lost so much time in selfishgrieving! I thought nothing more could happen after. Dr Maurice, do youknow what I ought to do?'

  'You!' he said. There was something piteous in her look of appeal. Thepale face and the gleaming eyes, the helplessness and the energy, allstruck him at a glance--a combination which he did not understand.

  'Yes--me! You will say what can I do? I cannot tell the world what hewas, as you have done. Thanks for that,' she said, holding out her handto him. 'The wife cannot speak for her husband, and I cannot write tothe papers. I am quite ignorant. Dr Maurice, tell me if you know. Whatcan I do?'

  Her gleam of wild indignation was gone. It had sunk before thecontroversy, the discussion which the newspapers would no longercontinue. If poor Robert had met with no defenders, she would have feltherself inspired. But his friends had spoken, friends who could speak.And deep depression fell over her. 'Oh!' she said, clasping her hands,'must we bear it? Is there nothing--nothing I can do?'

  Again and again had he asked himself the same question. 'Mrs Drummond,'he said, 'you can do nothing; try and make up your mind to it. I hopedyou might never know. A lady can do nothing in a matter of business. Youfeel yourself that you cannot write or speak. And what good would it doeven if you could? I say that a more honourable man never existed. Youcould say, I know, a great deal more than that; but what does it matterwithout proof? If we could find out about those books----'

  'He did not know anything about books,' said Helen; 'he could not evenkeep his own accounts--at least it was a trouble to him. Oh, you knowthat; how often have we--laughed----Oh, my God, my God!'

  Laughed! The words brought the tears even to Dr Maurice's eyes. He puthis hand on her arm and patted it softly, as if she had been a child.'Poor soul! poor soul!' he said: the tears had got into his voice too,and all his own thoughts went out of his mind in the warmth of hissympathy. He was a cautious man, not disposed to commit himself;
but thetouch of such emotion overpowered all his defences. 'Look here, MrsDrummond,' he said; 'I don't know what we may be able to do, but Ipromise you something shall be done--I give you my word. Theshareholders are making a movement already, but so many of them areruined, so many hesitate, as people say, to throw good money after thebad. I don't know why I should hesitate, I am sure. I have neither chicknor child.' He glanced at Norah as he spoke--at Norah lost in her book,with the light in her hair, and her outline clear against the window.But Helen did not notice, did not think what he could mean, beingabsorbed in her own thoughts. She watched him, notwithstanding, withdilating eyes. She saw all that at that moment she was capable of seeingin his face--the rising resolution that came with it, the flash ofpurpose. 'It ought to be done,' he said, 'even for justice. I will doit--for that--and for Robert's sake.'

  She held out both her hands to him in the enthusiasm of her ignorance.'Oh, God bless you! God reward you!' she said. It seemed to her as ifshe had accomplished all she had come for, and had cleared her husband'sname. At least his friend had pledged himself to do it, and it seemed toHelen so easy. He had only to refute the lies which had been told; toprove how true, how honest, how tender, how good, incapable of hurting afly; even how simple and ignorant of business, more ignorant almost thanshe was, he had been; a man who never had kept any books, not even hisown accounts; who had a profession of his own, quite different, at whichhe worked; who had not been five times in the City in his life before hecame connected with the Rivers's. After she had bestowed that blessing,it seemed to her almost as if she were making too much of it, as if shehad but to go herself and tell it all, and prove his whitest innocence.To go herself--but she did not know where.

  Dr Maurice came down with a little tremulousness of excitement about himfrom the pinnacle of that resolution. He knew better what it was. Hersimple notion of 'going and telling' resolved itself, in his mind, to anaction before the law-courts, to briefs, and witnesses, and expenditure.But he was a man without chick or child; he was not ruined by Rivers's.The sum he had lost had been enough to give him an interest in thequestion, not enough to injure his powers of operation. And it was aquestion of justice, a matter which some man ought to take up.Nevertheless it was a great resolution to take. It would revolutionizehis quiet life, and waste the substance which he applied, he knew, tomany good uses. He felt a little shaken when he came down. And then--hisdinner, the poor friendly unfortunate man!

  'Let Norah come and eat something with me,' he said, 'the child must betired. Come too and you shall have a chair to rest in, and we will nottrouble you; and then I will see you home.'

  'Ah!' Helen gave an unconscious cry at the word. But already, even inthis one hour, she had learned the first hard lesson of grief, which isthat it must not fatigue others with its eternal presence--that they whosuffer most must be content often to suffer silently, and put on suchsmiles as are possible--the ghost must not appear at life's commonestboard any more than at the banquet. It seemed like a dream when fiveminutes later she found herself seated in an easy-chair in Dr Maurice'sdining-room, painfully swallowing some wine, while Norah sat at thetable by him and shared his dinner. It was like a dream; twilight hadbegun to fall by this time, and the lamp was lighted on the table--alamp which left whole acres of darkness all round in the long dim room.Helen sat and looked at the bright table and Norah's face, which turningto her companion began to grow bright too, unawares. A fortnight is along age of trouble to a child. Norah's tears were still ready to come,but the bitterness was out of them. She was sad for sympathy now. Andthis change, the gleam of light, the smile of her old friend--his fond,half-mocking talk, felt like happiness come back. Her mother looked onfrom the shady corner where she was sitting, and understood it all.Robert's friend loved him; but was glad now to pass to other matters, tocommon life. And Robert's child loved him; but she was a child, and shewas ready to reply to the first touch of that same dear life. Helen wasgrowing wiser in her trouble. A little while ago she would havedenounced this changeableness, and struggled against it. But now sheunderstood and accepted what was out of her power to change.

  And then in the pauses of his talk with Norah, which was sweet to him,Dr Maurice heard all their story--how the house was already in thecreditors' hands, how they had prepared all their scanty possessions togo away, and how Mr Burton had been very kind. Helen had not associatedhim in any way with the assault on her husband's memory. She spoke ofhim with a half gratitude which filled the doctor with suppressed fury.He had been very kind--he had offered her a house.

  'I thought you disliked Dura,' he said with an impatience which he couldnot restrain.

  'And so I did,' she answered drearily, 'as long as I could. It does notmatter now.'

  'Then you will still go?'

  'Still? Oh, yes; where should we go else? The whole world is the same tous now,' said Helen. 'And Norah will be happier in the country; it isgood air.'

  'Good air!' said Dr Maurice. 'Good heavens, what can you be thinking of?And the child will grow up without any one to teach her, withouta--friend. What is to be done for her education? What is to be done--MrsDrummond, I beg your pardon. I hope you will forgive me. I have got intoa way of interfering and making myself ridiculous, but I did notmean----'

  'Nay,' said Helen gently, half because she felt so weary, half becausethere was a certain comfort in thinking that any one cared, 'I am notangry. I knew you would think of what is best for Norah. But, DrMaurice, we shall be very poor.'

  He did not make any reply; he was half ashamed of his vehemence, and yetwithal he was unhappy at this new change. Was it not enough that he hadlost Drummond, his oldest friend, but he must lose the child too, whomhe had watched ever since she was born? He cast a glance round upon thegreat room, which might have held a dozen people, and in his mindsurveyed the echoing chambers above, of which but one was occupied. Andthen he glanced at Norah's face, still bright, but slightly cloudedover, beside him, and thought of the pretty picture she had made in thelibrary seated against the window. Burton, who was their enemy, who hadbeen the chief agent in bringing them to poverty, could give them a hometo shelter their houseless heads. And why could not he, who had neitherchick nor child, who had a house so much too big for him, why could nothe take them in? Just to have the child in the house, to see her now andthen, to hear her voice on the stairs, or watch her running from room toroom, would be all he should want. They could live there and harmnobody, and save their little pittance. This thought ran through hismind, and then he stopped and confounded Burton. But Burton had nothingto do with it. He had better have confounded the world, which would notpermit him to offer shelter to his friend's widow. He gave a furtiveglance at Helen in the shadow. He did not want Helen in his house. Hisfriend's wife had never attracted him; and though he would have been thekindest of guardians to his friend's widow, still there was nothing inher that touched his heart. But he could not open his doors to her andsay, 'Come.' He knew if he did so how the men would grin and the womenwhisper; how impertinent prophecies would flit about, or slanders muchworse than impertinent. No, he could not do it; he could not have Norahby, to help on her education, to have a hand in her training, to makeher a child of his own. He had no child. It was his lot to live aloneand have no soft hand ever in his. All this was very ridiculous, for,as I have said before, Dr Maurice was very well off; he was not old norbad-looking, and he might have married like other men. But then he didnot want to marry. He wanted little Norah Drummond to be his child, andhe wanted nothing more.

  Helen leaned back in her chair without any thought of what was passingthrough his heart. That her child should have inspired a _grandepassion_ at twelve had never entered her mind, and she took his words intheir simplicity and pondered over them. 'I can teach her myself,' shesaid with a tremor in her voice. This man was not her friend, she knew.He had no partial good opinion of her, such as one likes one's friendsto have, but judged her on her merits, which few people are vain enoughto put much trust in; and she thought that very
likely he would notthink her worthy of such a charge. 'I _have_ taught her most of what sheknows,' she added with a little more confidence. 'And then the greatthing is, we shall be very poor.'

  'Forgive me!' he said; 'don't say any more. I was unpardonablyrash--impertinent--don't think of what I said.'

  And then he ordered his carriage for them and sent them home. I do notknow whether perhaps it did not occur to Helen as she drove backthrough the summer dusk to her dismantled house what a difference therewas between their destitution and poverty and all the warm glow ofcomfort and ease which surrounded this lonely man. But there can be nodoubt that Norah thought of it, who had taken in everything with herbrown eyes, though she said little. While they were driving along in theluxurious smoothly-rolling brougham, the child crept close to hermother, clasping Helen's arm with both her hands. 'Oh, mamma,' she said,'how strange it is that we should have lost everything and Dr Mauricenothing, that he should have that great house and this nice carriage,and us be driven away from St Mary's Road! What can God be thinking of,mamma?'

  'Oh, Norah, my dear child, we have each other, and he has nobody,' saidHelen; and in her heart there was a frenzy of triumph over this man whowas so much better off than she was. The poor so often have thatconsolation; and sometimes it is not much of a consolation after all.But Helen felt it to the bottom of her heart as she drew her child toher, and felt the warm, soft clasp of hands, the round cheek against herown. Two desolate, lonely creatures in their black dresses--but two,and together; whereas Dr Maurice, in his wealth, in his strength, inwhat the world would have called his happiness, was but one.