Chapter X

When Nora parted from her mother and came to London, all her haughtiness of disposition, the acquired haughtiness of circumstances, and all the self-reliance of her nature, the fruit partly of circumstances and partly of disposition, were, for the first time, beat out of her. She had failed in her duty to her mother; her lack of tenderness had driven her into a marriage that promised little happiness. She felt this truth with the keenness of a strong and honest nature, and it bowed her before herself in sackcloth and ashes. She had failed. Pride fled at the thought.

She felt very lonely on entering London. There had been a time when the thought of her all-sufficiency to herself had charmed her; but that charm was gone. Those possible brilliant prospects on which she was entering looked cold and dead; there was no one to admire her, no one to smile on her, and the glow of light in which they had been bathed, vanished. With quiet resolution she examined these prospects, and there was but one thought in the future that brought a kind of life and beating to her heart--the idea that by something she might do she might win this family of cousins of whom Monsieur d’Alberg had told her; this family who hated her; or, to speak more correctly, might win that one cousin, the young man whom she had been politely informed must wish her dead. The lonely catch at slight helps to ease their loneliness, and this family of distant cousins had in a short time become tangible objects in Nora’s mind and affections. For some, the thought of being hated would have prevented the growth of feelings of kindliness; but Nora’s nature was otherwise made--its very strength and self-reliance made her rise out of the atmosphere of personal considerations. She would be glad to receive, but that which she was longing for was to give, affection.

She had received, as was said, an invitation to her guardian’s house, and thither she repaired, and found him alone. He had a married daughter and a blind son, who both made his house their home when they pleased; but both were absent now.

On the very first meeting Mr. Fanshawe lost his heart to his ward. This would not have been the case with many guardians. The matronly girl of sixteen, calm and collected as a woman of thirty, would have had little charm for many elderly men. But Mr. Fanshawe, being himself an enthusiast, had a fanatical admiration for practical qualities and common sense, and he submitted himself at once to the influence of the young maiden who came to him for protection and advice. He saw at a glance the strength of her character. He did not see, not at that first glance, that an enthusiasm equal to his own was hid under her quiet manners, and was ready at a spark to gleam out of her dark eye. But he discovered something of it during the first evening, for no sooner was dinner over than she asked him, with some abruptness, as he stood enjoying his cup of coffee by his drawing-room fire, to tell her all about her father’s will. “Your father’s will,” he said, amazed. “Why, what do you want to know?”

“All the facts,” she said. “I have heard them, but perhaps from an enemy. I want to know the very truth about it all.”

“Bless my soul! why, what do you suspect? Why, I was one of the witnesses to the will. What are you going to accuse me of, my dear?”

Nora did not smile.

“I have heard the story only once,” she replied; “I wish to hear it again. All, everything--from the day of my father’s marriage till the day of his death.”

“I wish Mr. Conway was here,” said Mr. Fanshawe in his heart. This was a little soliloquy which was almost unconsciously made within, whenever he thought anything of responsibility was attached to his words.

Notwithstanding his wish for Mr. Conway, he felt himself, however, in no difficulty on this occasion. He collected the particulars from the recesses of his memory, and being a man of truth, and becoming warm with the telling of a tale to so attentive a listener, he laid before her all the facts connected with the wills, together with the behaviour of all parties connected with the affair.

Nora listened in silence till he had done. She then drew a deep breath, and said,

“I think the case is clear; I must give it all up.”

“Bless my soul!” he said, pushing back the chair which he had drawn nearer and nearer to her. “Why, what have I said?”

“Nothing but the truth--it _was_ the truth I had heard. If I had not been born, my cousin would have had all. Why was I born?”

“Why, my dear child, for no other reason that I can imagine but that it pleased God.”

The extreme simplicity with which this was said made Nora smile. But the smile faded, and the cloud returned.

“What I say is true,” she said. “I am an intruder. I cannot live on and bear it. Let them make their claim, and take what they claim.”

“And say your father was mad? Your poor father, who was as good and true a man as ever lived, who knew what he was about to the day of his death as well as I do--who thought he was making a right disposition of his money in leaving it to his child--one who he hoped would follow his steps--and in cutting it off from the bad, who would, he guessed, abuse it. Very well; if this is your first act, of course, neither I nor Mr. Conway have any power to forbid you; but--but _I_ wash my hands of it.”

In vain, from the first words of this oration, had Nora endeavoured to arrest him. He would not be arrested; his mind, filled with the thoughts conjured up by his tale, had become excited for the memory of his old friend, and he ran on breathlessly, unheeding the gestures and exclamations that attempted to stay his words. Before he concluded, Nora was in tears.

“I never meant that,” she said. “Do not accuse me of it. I will do whatever you advise.”

This little excitement had the effect of righting the positions of the elderly man and the young girl. Nora’s might be the strongest nature, but she had no knowledge of life. Mr. Fanshawe, taken by her manners, had been disposed to retreat into obscurity, and all the comfort of his relations with her might have been lost. But to cause tears in a pretty young lady is a feat of which a guardian may be proud, and Mr. Fanshawe felt a thrill of elation tingle through his veins. All was as it should be, and he set himself to soothe and to advise with all his powers. And except that he had his weaknesses of enthusiasm, and except that almost anyone who had the will could take advantage of his weakness and guide him, he was well fitted to be her friend. For he had sense and principle, and such a dread of himself, as made him always in the first instance oppose whatever his self was inclined to do. He and Nora, therefore, entered quietly on this question of one person standing in another’s light, and he spoke with a truth and force that allayed the turmoil of his mind. She began to see again that her father had had the right to entrust her wealth to her, if he chose, and to feel again the responsibility that trust laid upon her shoulders.

Nevertheless these cousins, this young cousin, occupied her mind, and when she reappeared on the following morning, it was with plans to be laid before her guardians for their benefit. The light that had faded from her prospects was beginning to gleam again, and the brightness that was kindled arose from the thought of being their benefactress. She would bear her wealth as it was laid upon her, but it should be for their sakes. She began with inquiries regarding them. Mr. Fanshawe did not know much.

“After their behaviour, my dear, to your poor father, I cut them,” was his first short answer.

“But they might have improved,” she suggested.

He was sorry to say that Mr. Devereux had not improved. That much he did know. He was a bad man. Mrs. Devereux, he believed, was a fool, and he did not like what he heard of the children. Nora was set down for a moment, then returned to the charge.

“I was talking to Mrs. Ratcliffe last night,” she said, “and she spoke of my cousin. She says she saw him once, and he was a beautiful boy.”

“May be so; but I fear, I fear he is a young scamp. Of him, however, you shall hear more, if you please. I was telling you of my poor blind son. His mania is education, and five or six years ago he had Henry Devereux in his charge. He was a scamp, depend upon it, but my son has a liking for him.”

Nora’s heart bounded with pleasure, and felt a glow of warmth towards the poor blind son. She said no more of him, however, but began to explain to her guardian her views as to being a help to her cousins, and asked him whether, in her place, he should not feel as she did.

“If I was to die they would have all. Why make them wish for my death? Why should I not help them now?”

Her pathetic voice touched Mr. Fanshawe, and he agreed that he should, in her place, wish to help them. But no sooner had he agreed than he drew back again. He and Mr. Conway had indeed already conversed on this subject, and had determined for the present to keep her out of Mr. Devereux’s hands. He was a dangerous man, and once placed in communication with her, there was no saying how he might prey upon her. They were no longer her guardians, but they had resolved, with the best of their power, to keep her from the influence of her cousins until she had come to an age more proper to manage for herself. All this, in apology for his rapid change of opinion, Mr. Fanshawe told her freely.

This passed in the morning, and being then forced to leave her, Nora remained with her disappointment alone. But a young and lively mind is not easily damped, nay, it is almost certain that if a natural desire is in any way repelled, it will find a hundred less natural ways of shooting forth. And so it was that as Nora talked with herself, and thought to herself, she came suddenly upon the idea of being a secret benefactress. The idea was no sooner formed than it grew up bright and beautiful, and it was a cherished thing before Mr. Fanshawe returned at night.

And at the first possible moment it was laid before him; not with all its brightness and fascination about it, but in the calm, sensible, prosaic way in which many bright inward cogitations are produced to the world, and so calmly and prosaically was it placed before him, that Mr. Fanshawe actually acceded to it as a good plan. He had certainly felt as she did, that in her place he should wish to do something; and yet no arguing had lessened his dislike to placing her in communication with Mr. Devereux. All the day long he had felt perplexed and annoyed, and afraid of further pressure, and Nora’s idea relieved him from his difficulty. In the first instant he spoke his approval with warmth; then a vision of Mr. Conway arose, and he qualified his approval. He finally ended with--

“Certainly, as you say, it will be right to do something, and this will give us a handle. I will make inquiries regarding his present needs, and one of these days you shall hear from me. A man with a family is best assisted by some help for the education of his children.”

“Not one of these days, but now,” Nora said imploringly. “Let me get this off my mind. Of course he must want to educate his children. Could you have him informed that a friend of his family will give him henceforth a sum every year?”

“No, no, not every year--till further notice we will say.”

“As you please. The only thing I should wish would be to ensure a part to my cousin.”

“Your cousin--the young man, you mean. Well, we can do that. And what sum do you propose?”

“I was thinking of two thousand a year; one thousand five hundred to Mr. Devereux, and----”

“Two thousand a year! Bless my soul, child, why, what are you thinking of? If we are to buy a property and build a house, and pension widows, and educate orphans, why, where do you suppose all the money is to come from? You may be rich, but riches have wings and fly away.”

“What, then, shall it be?”

“Not one penny more than a thousand; and I don’t know what Mr. Conway will say to that.”

“But what, then, could my cousin have?” And Nora looked perplexed.

“Your cousin--what, the young man?” Mr. Fanshawe did not, as Nora did, ignore the relationship to the older persons, and fix it on the younger and more distant connexion. “Oh! he could have three hundred a year--enough and too much, if all I hear of him be true.”

As three hundred and three thousand were sums regarding the value of which Nora was in equal ignorance, she quietly acquiesced, and warmly thanked her guardian for his consent to her plans.

“My consent, yes; but we must hear what Mr. Conway says. And meanwhile you shall hear more about that young scamp, Henry Devereux. My son knows him. We will go down to-morrow and visit my son at Windsor. I will write a line this evening--no, stay, it must be the day after.”