CHAPTER XVII.
The pretty house in St Mary's Road--what a change had come upon it!There was a great painted board in front describing the desirableresidence, with studio attached, which was to be let. The carpets werehalf taken up and laid in rolls along the floor, the chairs piledtogether, the costly, pretty furniture, so carefully chosen, the thingswhich belonged to the painter's early life, and those which were theproduct of poor Drummond's wealth, all removed and jumbled together, andticketed 'Lot 16,' 'Lot 20.' 'Lot 20' was the chair which had beenHelen's chair for years--the one poor Robert had kissed. If she hadknown that, she would have spent her last shilling to buy it back out ofthe rude hands that turned it over. But even Helen only knew half of thetragedy which had suddenly enveloped her life. They threaded their wayup-stairs to their bed-room through all those ghosts. It was stillearly; but what could they do down-stairs in the house which no longerretained a single feature of home? Helen put her child to bed, and thensat down by her, shading the poor little candle. It was scarcely quitedark even now. It is never dark in June. Through the open window therecame the sound of voices, people walking about the streets after theirwork was over. There are so many who have only the streets to walk in,so many to whom St Mary's Road, with its lilacs and laburnums and prettyhouses, was pleasant and fresh as if it had been in the depths of thecountry. Helen saw them from the window, coming and going, so often two,arm in arm, two who loitered and looked up at the lighted house, andspoke softly to each other, making their cheerful comments. The voicessounded mellow, the distant rattle of carriages was softened by thenight, and a soft wind blew through the lilacs, and some stars lookedwistfully out of the pale sky. Why are they so sad in summer, thoselustrous stars? Helen looked out at them, and big tears fell softly outof her eyes. Oh, face of Dives looking up! Oh, true and kind and justand gentle soul! Must she not even think of him as in heaven, as hiddenin God with the dead who depart in faith and peace, but gone elsewhere,banished for ever? The thought crossed her like an awful shadow, but didnot sting. There are some depths of misery to which healthy naturerefuses to descend, and this was one. Had she _felt_ as many good peoplefeel on this subject, and as she herself believed theoretically that shefelt, I know what Helen would have done. She would have gone down tothat river and joined him in his own way, wherever he was, choosing itso. No doubt, she would have been wrong. But she did not descend intothat abyss. She kept by her faith in God instinctively, not by anydoctrine. Did not God _know_? But even the edge of it, the shadow of thethought, was enough to chill her from head to foot. She stole in fromthe window, and sat down at the foot of the bed where Norah lay, andtried to think. She had thought there could be no future change, nodifference one way or other; but since this very morning what changesthere were!--her last confidence shattered, her last comfort thrust fromher. Robert's good name! She sat quite silent for hours thinking it overwhile Norah slept. Sometimes for a moment it went nigh to make her mad.Of all frantic things in the world, there is nothing like that sense ofimpotence--to feel the wrong and to be unable to move against it. Itwoke a feverish irritation in her, a _sourd_ resentment, a rage whichshe could not overcome, nor satisfy by any exertion. What could she do,a feeble woman, against the men who had cast this stigma on her husband?She did not even know who they were, except Golden. It was he who wasthe origin of it all, and whose profit it was to prove himself innocentby the fable of Robert's guilt! It was the most horrible farce, a farcewhich was a tragedy, which every one who knew him must laugh at wildlyamong their tears. But then the world did not know him; and the worldlikes to think the worst, to believe in guilt as the one thing alwayspossible. That there were people who knew better had been proved toher--people who had ventured to call out indignantly, and say, 'This isnot true,' without waiting to be asked. Oh, God bless them! God blessthem! But they were not the world.
When the night was deeper, when the walkers outside had gone, when allwas quiet, except now and then the hurried step of a late passer-by,Helen went to the window once more, and looked out upon that world. Whata little bit of a world it is that a woman can see from her window!--afew silent roofs and closed windows, one or two figures going andcoming, not a soul whom she knew or could influence; but all thoseunknown people, when they heard her husband's name, if it were yearsand years hence, would remember the slander that had stained it, andwould never know his innocence, his incapacity even for such guilt. Thisis what gives force to a lie, this is what gives bitterness, beyondtelling, to the hearts of those who are impotent, whose contradictioncounts for nothing, who have no proof, but only certainty. What a nightit was!--like Paradise even in London. The angels might have beenstraying through those blue depths of air, through the celestial warmthand coolness, without any derogation from their high estate. It was notmoonlight, nor starlight, nor dawn, but some heavenly combination of allthree which breathed over the blue arch above, so serene, so deep, sounfathomable; and down below the peopled earth lay like a child,defenceless and trustful in the arms of its Maker. 'Dear God, the verycity seems asleep!' But here was one pair of eyes that no sleep visited,which dared not look up to heaven too closely lest her dead should notbe there; which dared not take any comfort in the pity of earth, knowingthat it condemned while it pitied. God help the solitary, the helpless,the wronged, those who can see no compensation for their sufferings, nopossible alchemy that can bring good out of them! Helen crept to bed atlast, and slept. It was the only thing in which there remained anyconsolation; to be unconscious, to shut out life and light and all thataccompanies them; to be for an hour, for a moment, as good as dead.There are many people always, to whom this is the best blessingremaining in the world.
The morning brought a letter from Mr Burton, announcing that the houseat Dura was ready to receive his cousin. Helen would have been thankfulto go but for the discovery she had made on the previous day. After thatit seemed to her that to be on the spot, to be where she could maintainpoor Robert's cause, or hear of others maintaining it, was all shewanted now in the world. But this was a mere fancy, such as the poorcannot indulge in. She arranged everything to go to her new home on thenext day. It was time at least that she should leave this place in whichher own room was with difficulty preserved to her for another night. Allthe morning the mother and daughter shut themselves up there, hearingthe sounds of the commotion below--the furniture rolled about here andthere, the heavy feet moving about the uncarpeted stairs and rooms thatalready sounded hollow and vacant. Bills of the sale were in all thewindows; the very studio, the place which now would have been sacred ifthey had been rich enough to indulge in fancies. But why linger uponsuch a scene? The homeliest imagination can form some idea ofcircumstances which in themselves are common enough.
In the afternoon the two went out--to escape from the house more thananything else. 'We will go and see the Haldanes,' Helen said to herchild; and Norah wondered, but acquiesced gladly. Mrs Drummond had nevertaken kindly to the fact that her husband's chief friend lived inVictoria Villas, and was a Dissenting minister with a mother and sisterwho could not be called gentlewomen. But all that belonged to the day ofher prosperity, and now her heart yearned for some one who lovedRobert--some one who would believe in him--to whom no vindication, evenin thought, would be necessary. And the Haldanes had been ruined byRivers's. This was another bond of union. She had called but once uponthem before, and then under protest; but now she went nimbly, almosteagerly, down the road, past the line of white houses with theirrailings. There had been much thought and many discussions over MrBurton's proposal within those walls. They had heard of it nearly afortnight since, but they had not yet made any formal decision; that isto say, Mrs Haldane was eager to go; Miss Jane had made a great manycalculations, and decided that the offer ought to be accepted as amatter of duty; but Stephen's extreme reluctance still kept them fromsettling. Something, however, had occurred that morning which had addeda sting to Stephen's discouragement, and taken away the little strengthwith which he had faintly maintained his own way. In the
warmth andfervour of his heart, he had used his little magazine to vindicate hisfriend. A number of it had been just going to the press when the papershad published Drummond's condemnation, and Haldane, who knew him sowell--all his weakness and his strength--had dashed into the field andproclaimed, in the only way that was possible to him, the innocence andexcellence of his friend. All his heart had been in it; he had made sucha sketch of the painter, of his genius (poor Stephen thought he hadgenius), of his simplicity and goodness and unimpeachable honour, aswould have filled the whole denomination with delight, had the subjectof the sketch been one of its potentates or even a member of MrHaldane's chapel. But Robert was not even a Dissenter at all, he hadnothing to do with the denomination; and, to tell the truth, his _?loge_was out of place. Perhaps Stephen himself felt it was so after he hadobeyed the first impulse which prompted it. But at least he was not leftlong in doubt. A letter had reached him from the magazine committeethat morning. They had told him that they could not permit their organto be made the vehicle of private feeling; they had suggested an apologyin the next number; and they had threatened to take it altogether out ofhis hands. Remonstrances had already reached them, they said, from everyquarter as to the too secular character of the contents; and theyventured to remind Mr Haldane that this was not a mere literary journal,but the organ of the body, and intended to promote its highest, itsspiritual interests. Poor Stephen! he was grieved, and he writhed underthe pinch of this interference. And then the magazine not only broughthim in the half of his income, but was the work of his life--he hadhoped to 'do some good' that way. He had aimed at improving it, cuttingshort the gossip and scraps of local news, and putting in something of ahigher character. In this way he had been able to persuade himself,through all his helplessness, that he still possessed some power ofinfluence over the world. He had been so completely subdued by theattack, that he had given in about Mr Burton's house, and that very daythe proposal had been accepted; but he had not yet got the assaultitself out of his head. All the morning he had been sitting with themanuscripts and proofs before him which were to make up his new number,commenting upon them in the bitterness of his heart.
'I suppose I must put this in now, whether I like it or not,' he said.'I never suspected before how many pangs ruin brings with it, mother;not one, but a legion. They never dreamt of interfering with me before.Now look at this rabid, wretched thing. I would put it in the fire if Idared, and free the world of so much ill-tempered folly; but Batemanwrote it, and I dare not. Fancy, I _dare_ not! If I had beenindependent, I should have made a stand. And my magazine--all the littlecomfort I had--'
'Oh, Stephen, my dear! but what does it matter what you put in if theylike it? You are always writing, writing, wearing yourself out. Whyshouldn't they have some of the trouble. You oughtn't to mind----'
'But I do mind,' he said, with a feeble smile. 'It is all I have to do,mother. It is to me what I am to you; you would not like to see meneglected, fed upon husks, like the prodigal.'
'Oh, Stephen dear, how can you talk so?--you neglected!' said his motherwith tears in her eyes.
'Well, that is what I feel, mother. I shall have to feed my child withhusks--tea-meetings and reports of this and that chapel, and how muchthey give. They were afraid of me once; they dared not grumble when Irejected and cut out; but--it is I who dare not now.'
Mrs Haldane wisely made no reply. In her heart she had liked themagazine better when it was all about the tea-meetings and the progressof the good cause. She liked the bits of sectarian gossip, and to knowhow much the different chapels subscribed, which congregation had givenits minister a silver teapot, and which had given him his dismissal. Allthis was more interesting to her than all Stephen's new-fangleddiscussions of public matters, his eagerness about education andthought, and a great many other things that did not concern his mother.But she held this opinion within herself, and was as indignant with themagazine committee as heart could desire. The two fell silent for sometime, he going on with his literature, and she with her sewing, till theonly servant they had left, a maiden, called _par excellence_ 'thegirl,' came in with a tray laden with knives and forks to lay the clothfor dinner. The girl's eyes were red, and a dirty streak across onecheek showed where her tears had been wiped away with her apron.
'What is the matter?' said Mrs Haldane.
'Oh, please, it's Miss Jane,' cried the handmaid. 'She didn't ought tospeak so; oh, she didn't ought to. My mother's a seat-holder in ourchapel, and I'm a member. I'm not a-going to bear it! We ain't folks tobe pushed about.'
'Lay the cloth, and do it quietly,' said the old lady. And with a silentexasperation, such as only a woman can feel, she watched the unhandycreature. 'Thank heaven, we shall want no girl in the country,' she saidto herself. But when her eye fell on Stephen, he was actuallysmiling--smiling at the plea for exception, with that mingled sadnessand bitterness which it pained his mother to see. The girl went onsniffing and sobbing all the same. She had already driven her othermistress almost frantic in the kitchen. Miss Jane had left a littlestew, a savoury dish such as Stephen's fanciful appetite required totempt it, by the fire, slowly coming to perfection. 'The girl' hadremoved it to the fender, where it was standing, growing cold, just atthe critical moment when all its juices should have been blending underthe gentle, genial influence of the fire. Common cooks cannot stew. Theycan boil, or they can burn; but they never catch the delicious mediumbetween. Only such persons as cook for love, or such as possess genius,can hit this more than golden mean. Miss Jane combined both characters.She did it _con amore_ and _per amore_; and when she found her fragrantdish set aside for the sake of 'the girl's' kettle, her feelings can bebut faintly imagined by the uninitiated. 'I wish I could beat you,' shesaid, with natural exasperation. And this to 'a joined member,' aseat-holder's daughter! Stephen laughed when the tale was repeated tohim, with a laugh which was full of bitterness. He tried to swallow hisportion of the stew, but it went against him. 'It is the sameeverywhere,' he said; 'the same subjection of the wise to the foolish,postponing of the best to the worst. Rubbish to please the joinedmembers--silence and uselessness to us.'
'Oh, Stephen!' said Mrs Haldane, 'you know I am not always of your wayof thinking. After all there is something in it; for when a girl is achurch member, she can't be quite without thought; and when she neglectsher work, it is possible, you know, that she might be occupied withbetter things. I don't mean to say that it is an excuse.'
'I should think not, indeed,' said Miss Jane. 'I'd rather have some onethat knew her work, and did it, than a dozen church members. A heathento-day would have been as much use to me.'
'That may be very true,' said her mother; 'but I think, consideringStephen's position, that such a thing should not be said by you or me.In my days a person stood up for chapel, through thick and thin,especially when he had a relation who was a minister. You think you arewiser, you young ones, and want to set up for being liberal, and thinkchurch as good as chapel, and the world, so far as I can make out, asgood as either. But that way of thinking would never answer me.'
'Well, thank heaven,' said Miss Jane in a tone of relief, 'in thecountry we shall not want any "girl."'
'That is what I have been thinking,' said Mrs Haldane with alacrity; andin the painful moment which intervened while the table was being clearedand the room put in order, she painted to herself a fancy picture of'the country.' She was a Londoner born, and had but an imperfect ideawhat the word meant. It was to her a vague vision of greenness, parksand trees and great banks of flowers. The village street was a thing shehad no conception of. A pleasant dream of some pleasant room opening ona garden, and level with it, crossed her mind. It was a cottage ofromance, one of those cottages which make their appearance in thestories which she half disapproved of, yet felt a guilty pleasure inreading. There had been one, an innocent short one, with the gentlestof good meanings, in the last number of Stephen's magazine, with justsuch a cottage in it, where a sick heroine recovered. She thought shecould see the room, and
the invalid chair outside the door, in which hecould be wheeled into the garden to the seat under the apple-tree. Herheart overflowed with that pleasant thought. And Stephen might get well!Such a joy was at the end of every vista to Mrs Haldane. She sat anddreamed over this with a smile on her face while the room was beingcleared; and her vision was only stayed by the unusual sound of Helen'sknock at the door.
'It will be some one to see the house,' said Miss Jane, and she wentaway hurriedly, with loud-whispered instructions to the girl, into 'thefront drawing-room,' to be ready to receive any applicant; so that MissJane was not in the room when Helen with her heart beating, and Norahclinging close to her as her shadow, was shown abruptly into theinvalid's room. 'The girl' thrust her in without a word of introductionor explanation. Norah was familiar in the place, though her mother was astranger. Mrs Haldane rose hastily to meet them, and an agitated speechwas on Helen's lips that she had come to say good-bye, that she wasgoing away, that they might never meet again in this world,--when hereye caught the helpless figure seated by the window, turning ahalf-surprised, half-sympathetic look upon her. She had never seen poorStephen since his illness, and she was not prepared for this completeand lamentable overthrow. It drove her own thoughts, even her ownsorrows, out of her mind for the moment. She gave a cry of mingledwonder and horror. She had heard all about it, but seeing is so verydifferent from hearing.
'Oh, Mr Haldane!' she said, going up to him, forgetting herself--withsuch pity in her voice as he had not heard for years. It drove out ofhis mind, too, the more recent and still more awful occasion he had topity her. He looked at her with sudden gratitude in his eyes.
'Yes, it is a change, is it not?' he said with a faint smile. He hadbeen an Alp-climber, a mighty walker, when she saw him last.
Some moments passed before she recovered the shock. She sat down by himtrembling, and then she burst into sudden tears--not that she was awoman who cried much in her sorrow, but that her nerves were affectedbeyond her power of control.
'Mr Haldane, forgive me,' she faltered. 'I have never seen yousince--and so much has happened--oh, so much!'
'Ah, yes,' he said. 'I could cry too--not for myself, for that is an oldstory. I would have gone to you, had I been able--you know that; and itis very, very kind of you to come to me.'
'It is to say good-bye. We are going away to the country, Norah and I,'said Helen; 'there is no longer any place for us here. But I wanted tosee you, to tell you--you seem--to belong--so much--to the old time.'
Ah, that old time! the time which softens all hearts. It had not beenperfect while it existed, but now how fair it was! Perhaps StephenHaldane remembered it better than she did; perhaps it might even crosshis mind that in that old time she had not cared much to see him, hadnot welcomed him to her house with any pleasure. But he was too generousto allow himself even to think such a thought, in her moment ofdownfall. The depths were more bitter to her even than to him. He wouldnot let the least shadow even in his mind fret her in her great trouble.He put out his hand, and grasped hers with a sympathy which was moretelling than words.
'And I hope your mother will forgive me too,' she said with sometimidity. 'I thought I had more command of myself. We could not gowithout coming to say good-bye.'
'It is very kind--it is more than I had any right to expect,' said MrsHaldane. 'And we are going to the country too. We are going to Dura, toa house Mr Burton has kindly offered to us. Oh, Mrs Drummond, now Ithink of it, probably we owe it to you.'
'No,' said Helen, startled and mystified; and then she added slowly, 'Iam going to Dura too.'
'Oh, how very lucky that is! Oh, how glad I am!' said the old lady.'Stephen, do you hear? Of course, Mr Burton is your cousin; it isnatural you should be near him. Stephen, this is good news for you. Youwill have Miss Norah, whom you were always so fond of, to come about youas she used to do--that is, if her mamma will allow her. Oh, my dear, Iam so glad! I must go and tell Jane. Jane, here is something that willmake you quite happy. Mrs Drummond is coming too.'
She went to the door to summon her daughter, and Helen was left alonewith the sick man. She had not loved him in the old time, but yet helooked a part of Robert now, and her heart melted towards him. She wasglad to have him to herself, as glad as if he had been a brother. Sheput her hand on the arm of his chair, laying a kind of doubtful claim tohim. 'You have seen what they say?' she asked, looking in his face.
'Yes, all; with fury,' he said, 'with indignation! Oh my God, that Ishould be chained here, and good for nothing! They might as well havesaid it of that child.'
'Oh, is it not cruel, cruel!' she said.
These half-dozen words were all that passed between them, and yet theycomforted her more than all Dr Maurice had said. He had been indignanttoo, it is true; but not with this fiery, visionary wrath--the rage ofthe helpless, who can do nothing.
When Miss Jane came in with her mother, they did the most of thetalking, and Helen shrunk into herself; but when she had risen to goaway, Stephen thrust a little packet into her hand. 'Read it when you gohome,' he said. It was his little dissenting magazine, the insignificantbrochure which she would have scorned so in the old days. With whattears, with what swelling of her heart, with what an agony of pride andlove and sorrow she read it that night!
And so the old house was closed, and the old life ended. Henceforward,everything that awaited her was cold and sad and new.
END OF VOL. I.
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3) Page 17