Chapter XIV

We left Henry Devereux on the eve of attaining the object of his wishes. He went to college, and there remained for two years. His time of residence ended under no flattering circumstances. It was then suggested to him, mildly but firmly, that, unless he wished to be rusticated, he must return no more.

Not that Henry was guilty of any grievous offences. He was a favourite with all men who came within the sphere of his influence; and his tutors, like Stephen Fanshawe, over-looked his misdemeanours as long as it was possible to do so. But Henry was guilty of a boyish and mischievous spirit of insubordination. He would not submit to rules; he broke them himself, and incited others to follow his example; and the time came when patience was exhausted, and the warning was given.

Henry was exceedingly angry. He had been very happy at Oxford, and though he had no wish to distinguish himself as a scholar, he had a great wish to do all that a young gentleman ought to do, all that those with whom he associated intended to do. He meant to have passed decently through all examinations, and to leave college in the conviction that he had received in all points a proper university education.

He felt angry and aggrieved, robbed of his rights, and ill-treated by the world. Far from being penitent, he was proudly resentful, and by his stern sense of his wrongs brought many to sympathise with him. It was not that his intellectual powers were insufficient to understand that the discipline of a college must be upheld. He was quite equal to reason, and reason well, would he have given himself up to thought; but there was in his mind so singular a thoughtlessness, so strange a distaste to one moment’s reflection, that at one and twenty he was still, in some points of view, an infant. An infant looks neither before nor behind, nor more did Henry. An infant thinks of no consequences to its words and actions, nor more did Henry. An infant lives in the innocent belief that all it does is well done, and so did Henry.

From the time of his leaving college to the present time only a few months had elapsed, and those months had passed, in spite of the resentment of his mind, happily by. A kind young friend had helped him in some money difficulties--which, of course, had occurred on leaving Oxford; for though not specially extravagant, Henry was careless, and had a little debt, and the debt to the friend was to be repaid by little and little, leaving him power to enjoy the greatest part of his three hundred pounds a year in peace. He did enjoy it, therefore, putting his future out of his head, and wandering about as a young gentleman at large. When his father once or twice asked him frowningly what he intended to do in life, Henry lightly answered there was time enough to think, and absented himself from home and disagreeable questions as much as possible. But in truth Mr. Devereux only asked the question because he knew it was disagreeable; he did not imagine that Henry need turn his mind to business. The pleasure of touching an instalment of his property--viz., Nora’s money--had in no degree abated his desire to possess it all, nor his confidence that he should do so in the end.

Mr. Elliott was distantly related to the Devereux, and having once seen Henry, took a fancy to him. Mr. Elliott hated the young generation with mortal hatred, but it was the young generation fused into a body that he hated; to individuals he was indulgent, and the thoughtless boyish disposition of Henry was suited to his taste.

“He’s not so bad as the rest,” he observed to his wife in apology for his fancy, and the same observation always followed a fancy. “He may think small beer of me, and I daresay he does in his heart; but he don’t show it, and that’s something. And I don’t fancy that he cares more for getting on in the world than I did when I was a boy. They are all so precious knowing now-a-days, but he’s not so bad as the rest. He likes to be a boy, and enjoy himself while he may.”

Henry therefore had a general invitation to Thorneybank; and as at Thorneybank, or in its neighbourhood, there was a little shooting, and a little hunting, and a little fishing, and other diversions, he was not slow to avail himself of the invitation.

Mrs. Elliott liked him also; and though he, companionable and affectionate, was satisfied with the comfortable life he found under her roof, however quiet it might be, she, on hospitable thoughts intent, always endeavoured to provide special attractions when he came.

On the Saturday evening mentioned he stood with his back to the fire near Mr. Elliott’s chair, watching the guests as they assembled. He was a good-looking young man, and his countenance might still be best described in Mrs. Ratcliffe’s words. He had such a “sweet, mischievous look,” that an amiable cannibal would certainly have cooked and eaten him at once.

He stood watching, and now and then addressing a remark on the sad condition of the roads to Mr. Elliott; for he had just arrived, and his arrival had been delayed by the extremely disordered state of the turnpike road.

“I don’t see what, turnpikes are for if they don’t keep the roads in order,” he said, with sage complaint.

“It’s all of a piece,” grunted Mr. Elliott, “nothing is done now-a-days. Nothing but talk. They talk till I’m sick; but what’s the good of that?”

“They do talk,” Henry replied with hearty agreement. “I bought a newspaper on the way, and I believe twelve columns were full of men’s speeches. They go spouting about the country, and making a bother; and I don’t see what good it does. It would be better to mend the roads.”

“It’s all of a piece,” Mr. Elliott grunted again, and said no more, for he was chary even of abuse before dinner.

Mrs. Elliott now approached him.

“How do you like the look of your company?” she asked.

“Oh! I like them very well,” he replied. “I am not fastidious.”

“That is a covert way of depreciating my guests,” she said, laughing; “but don’t be alarmed. I have got a reserve; a very nice young lady for you.”

“Then I wish you would not,” he said, with vexation. “Why a young lady? The very last thing I like is a young lady.”

“Is it?”

“Indeed it is; and I am not singular--I hear many young men say the same. Now-a-days, wherever one goes, one is provided with a young lady. It never used to be so; was it, Mr. Elliott?”

“Never. A woman used to be a woman, and there was an end of it.”

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Elliott. “However, I do as I would be done by. I know, till I met with my old man, I used to like to have a young one.”

“Well, I am sure I don’t. I would far rather have you, Mrs. Elliott.”

“But you can’t have me. I am the property of that grave squire out there, J.P., and other letters besides. Take my advice, and be pleased with the young lady.”

“I will make myself useful, of course; only I can’t help thinking this new plan a dreadful bore.”

“I don’t think you will find her a bore; and, besides, you may form some useful designs. I won’t vouch for the truth, but it is reported here that my young friend has a little money.”

“And of all things in the world what I most _hate_ is a girl with money.”

Henry’s vehement speech was stopped by a tap from Mrs. Elliott, and she hurried away, to be near the door to meet Nora, who had just been announced.

She supposed Nora would be shy, and kindly accompanied her across the room to a sofa. But Nora was not shy. She had been too much wrapt in her own thoughts all her life to think of the eyes of the world; and it is the dread of the eyes of the world that makes the shyness of such occasions. She calmly accompanied her hostess, was introduced to Mr. Elliott as she passed, and to a lady, by whom she sat down; and all the while she had never even thought of the curious eyes that were watching her. Poor Miss Willis, on the contrary, who was always afraid of doing something wrong, felt, as she followed her, that every gaze was fixed on her feet, and her feet, in consequence, growing unruly, she first trod on her gown, and then stumbled over a stool.

It was not only because Nora was new that she was looked at. There was also a decision to be made whether or not she was handsome. That she was so was of course proved by the speculations on the subject; but the degree in which the beauty was allowed, was according to differing tastes. She looked old for her years; the smoothness and freshness of girlhood were not wanting, but there was a something about her unlike youth. Her features, though soft and pensive, were firmly cut; her dark eyes were quiet and grave; and all her movements, though light enough, had a composure which was not young.

Nor was her dress according to the common taste for eighteen. It was a beautiful black velvet, made without any trimming; and she had one red rose in her hair. The dress became her, but it was a matronly dress.

Of all affectations, the only one that is pardonable is that which assumes the sober dress of maturer years; and this because it is not a falsehood, for a few years must inevitably make that a truth which is only forestalled. This affectation Nora had. She liked to hear that she looked twenty-five; and in governing her ways, she endeavoured not only to assume, but to obtain, the calm judgment and sober sense which experience gives. She had planned out her life as for one who intended to be a looker-on, a helper to others, not a sharer in the common joys and sorrows of her kind. It was her utter loneliness in life that made this cold kind of dream her dream of the future.

When she had seated her newly arrived guests, Mrs. Elliott returned to Henry.

“What do you say now?” she asked, playfully. “Do you like your young lady?”

“Not at all.”

“Indeed! Now, I think she is one of the most attractive-looking persons I ever saw. You must call her handsome.”

“She is too superior-looking to please me,” he said, stubbornly. “I like superior old people, but I can’t bear superior young ones.”

“Nor I, often; but this girl is so simple and straightforward that, though superior, she did not offend me. I think you will like her.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself about it, Mrs. Elliott. Of course I don’t expect always to have the most agreeable companion that can be imagined, but I hope I do my duty like a man. What is the young lady’s name, and what are her connections? Let me be forearmed, that I may not abuse her dearest relation.”

“Her name is Miss Smith. You must be very careful indeed, or you will surely get into mischief.”

“That I shall. So she doesn’t even attain to the aristocratic distinction of Smythe. I honour her for that.”

He spoke with vehement and bitter irony. Mrs. Elliott laughed, and added,

“She is only a visitor at the Spa, and I have made few inquiries about her. But if you do not abuse either the Smiths or the Smythes, I daresay you will get safely through dinner.”

She left him, and immediately afterwards dinner was ready, and she called him to his charge.

“Mr. Henry Devereux,” she said, naming him to Nora.

Nora stood amazed and transfixed, and in a maze sat down to dinner. This moment, often pictured in her dreaming, but not hoped for in her daily fancy, had, then, arrived! Henry thought so superior and composed-looking a young lady ought to bear the burden of conversation. Nora, wrapt in her agitating thoughts--for they were agitated, she knew not why--thought not of conversation at all. The soup went round, and was eaten in silence. While Henry was accepting some fish and some fish-sauce, she, not having yet seen his face, raised her eyes and looked curiously at him. As Henry put the sauce on his plate, he thought the time was come when he ought to speak, and turned his head in the same moment to address her. He met her grave inquiring gaze fastened on him.

“What are you looking at?” he said, startled and astonished.

The next moment he coloured, and felt abashed at his question. Vanity suggested that he was worth a look, and modesty that he ought not to have noticed it.

“I was looking to see who had taken me in to dinner. The whole company is new to me. Even Mr. Elliott I never saw before.”

The answer was given with the grave unabashed simplicity of a child. Henry’s feeling of flattered vanity was put to flight, but he felt better disposed towards the superior young lady than he had hitherto done, and they fell into conversation.

“I don’t know them all myself,” he replied, feeling comfortable, nevertheless, in the superiority of his position, “but I will tell you those I do know.” And he gave a slight sketch, not ill-natured, but boyishly mischievous, of every person present.

Totally unaccustomed to the society of young people, and more especially to ways and manners of this kind, Nora laughed as she never had laughed before; and Henry, flattered at her tribute to his powers, thought her charming, and exerted himself to be agreeable.

“Mr. Elliott is worth knowing,” he said, as he finished up his sketch with his host. “It is so jolly to hear an old fellow abusing everything and everybody. I often make him do it for fun, and he never finds me out.”

He then abruptly changed the subject, and asked her if she did not find the Spa very flat.

She innocently asked if he meant dull, and with laughing eyes but demure voice he replied that he did.

“No, not dull. I have too much to do to be dull.”

“What _can_ you have to do?” he asked, curiously.

And with openness and simplicity she replied that, being almost alone in the world, she had to manage her own concerns; and that, having been but ill-prepared for it when she was a child, she had to try now to make herself fit.

Henry cast a glance of respect upon her. Her superiority seemed to be coming up to the surface, and he felt inclined to draw back and be less friendly in his manner. A short silence followed. During that time Nora had been thinking about him--wondering what were his character and thoughts, and wishing to discover. Before he broke the silence by the introduction of any other subject, she took courage, and said,

“May I ask you the question you asked me? What do you do all day?”

“Oh! I do nothing,” he said quickly.

“Nothing! But how tiresome! When I have nothing to do, then is the time that I feel miserable.”

“You must understand, Miss Smith,” he said very seriously, “there are two meanings to the word nothing. You use it in one sense; I use it in another. I guessed what you would understand by the word, and so I replied to you in your own language. According to _your_ understanding I do nothing. _I_ use the word differently.”

“Then in your sense of the word?” she asked, smiling.

“I amuse myself. At this moment I may say I do nothing but amuse myself. I read a book if it amuses me; if it don’t, I shut it up. I go to a house, and if it amuses me, I stay as long as I am wished for; if it don’t, I go away. I talk to a person if he amuses me; if he doesn’t--I am not speaking of common civility, in which, I hope, I am not deficient--I move away. This kind of life you would call doing nothing, but I find it pleasant enough.”

“I daresay it is for the moment; but it would not do for life,” slowly considering, and shaking her head. “When you think of the future don’t you----”

“The future is a bore,” he interrupted, decidedly. “I _never_ think of it.”

Nora was silent. She was thinking.

“If you ask me what I think,” Henry began, again speaking rapidly, as if her thoughtful countenance forced him to address it, “I will tell you what it is I do think; and that is, that people think a great deal too much. Young people, I mean. I am all for the thoughts of the old, and wise, and experienced; but I cannot bear to hear young people so knowing and so prudent as they are now-a-days. The very schoolboys are made to think how they are to get on in life. In my opinion there is no use, and no good, in putting scheming thoughts into schoolboys’ heads. Young people ought to enjoy their youth, and leave the cares of their life to those who have a right to care for them. I beg your pardon,” he said, stopping himself suddenly. “You must know this is a favourite topic of mine, and one on which I preach to my intimate friends by the hour together. But I have no right to inflict it on you; especially as you will not agree with me, I know.”

“I really don’t know,” Nora replied, and she raised her eyes with a perplexed look. “I never thought on this subject at all. I don’t know whether I agree or disagree. Perhaps I agree.”

“Oh! no, you don’t. You say you wish to improve yourself, and I daresay you are full of prudent schemes.”

“For myself, yes. I think my only wish is to be useful in the world. But then, I am no rule for other people. I am very lonely. I hope most others are happier than I am.”

“Then you would allow happy people to enjoy themselves.”

“I think I would, but I have not considered. I am prudent, you see. I will not give an opinion without thought.”

“I don’t mind that,” he said, with condescension. “I assure you I have no particular admiration for fools.”

There was a good deal more conversation during dinner, for, though Nora was often addressed by her other neighbour, Henry considered her as his own property for the time being, and as often as she turned away watched his opportunity to recall her attention to himself.

When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, the ladies were already entertaining themselves with music. A Miss Romer, a lady singularly unprepossessing in manner, conversation, and appearance, was playing, and Nora was seated by her, absorbed in attention. This singularly unprepossessing lady became while playing like one inspired, and, in consequence of her talent, received at all times considerable attention.

Henry was fond of music, and as he could not reach Nora, he seated himself by Mrs. Elliott and Miss Willis. They were listening, but were at a greater distance, and were occasionally talking as well as listening.

“Yes, it is wonderful,” Mrs. Elliott was saying. “Whence comes such a gift, and why is it bestowed on so strangely unsuitable a person?”

“By way of compensation, perhaps,” Miss Willis said, “lest a poor human being should be too much despised.”

“That is just what I should have said,” Henry burst in, “only not so well. How I do hate this way of wishing to account for the use of everything, and laying out everything by rule. We all are what we are, and the worst of us have our accomplishments and our amiable qualities, I daresay.”

“I am rebuked, indeed,” Mrs. Elliott said, laughing; “but notwithstanding your rebukes, I wonder still. Whence come those chords? They cannot be mechanical; and where is the soul lodged that produces them?”

They were the finishing chords of a beautiful piece of Mendelssohn’s, and Miss Romer rose up, cold, ugly, portly, and impassive, and seated herself near Nora.

“Do you sing?” she asked abruptly.

“A little.”

“I fancied you did. Pray sing.”

Nora blushed, and Mrs. Elliott and Henry came forward to make a civiller request.

She sang, and one or two others sang, and then, at Mrs. Elliott’s request, she sang again. Her voice was sweet and fresh. She sang with pleasure, and she gave pleasure. Her second song was a well-known English song. Henry, delighted, rose from his seat near Miss Willis, stood behind her, and after two or three bars, took a second, slightly, but correctly. Nora, surprised, stopped and looked round.

“I beg your pardon,” he said earnestly, stooping down to address her, “do I put you out?”

“Oh! no.”

“Oh! pray go on!” shouted every voice; and Nora once more began, a strange sensation in her heart and in her throat, as their voices united again, and united most harmoniously in the song.

“I beg your pardon, and I beg everybody’s pardon,” Henry said, when they had done.

“And I will not hear of such a thing as pardon,” cried Mrs. Elliott, warmly. “Now, talking of accomplishments, as we were just now, where have you lodged _your_ accomplishment all this while?”

“I don’t know. I discovered it by chance two or three months ago, and am extremely proud of it. But the curious thing is that, though I can take a second, or make a second at a moment’s notice, I know nothing of music--nothing whatever. It seems a thing with which I have nothing whatever to do.”

“That is like me, sir,” said Miss Romer. “My musical talent comes direct from Heaven.”

“I don’t know what to say about coming from Heaven,” replied Henry, demurely; “all I mean to say is that I have taken no trouble with it, and have no influence with it.”

“Will you be so good as to have this influence with it,” said Mrs. Elliott, “to make it sing again? Will you give us a song of your own?”

“Oh! no, I can’t sing alone. That is the curious thing. I am told I am very correct as a second; but my solo pieces are another thing.”

“Oh! let us hear one!” cried many voices.

“No, indeed. Such as I do sing are not at all fit for a drawing-room. Not that I sing any harm, Miss Willis,” turning and addressing her, though the poor thing certainly made no sign; “the songs are innocent enough, but boisterous, and perhaps vulgar. I sing sometimes at suppers, but never elsewhere. If Miss Smith will sing again, I will with great pleasure do my second, but not otherwise.”

Nora re-seated herself, and turned over some of Mrs. Elliott’s music.

“Do you mind?” he said, bending down again, and speaking with unwonted gentleness. “Did you think me impertinent?”

She looked round at him, and shook her head. He helped her to the choice of a song, and again their voices united, and with a sweetness and harmony that riveted the attention of the hearers, and exercised a kind of fascination over themselves. Nora especially, possessed of her secret, felt a strange emotion. Her heart beat quick, and with difficulty she governed her voice, and kept it steady.

The party dispersed, and Henry and Mr. and Mrs. Elliott remained alone.

“Well, how did you like the young lady?” she said, archly.

“I liked her very well,” he replied, with stately indifference.

“I thought Miss Smith a very well-behaved young lady,” observed Mr. Elliott.

“So did I, sir,” he then added, seriously--“not at all like a modern young lady.”

“No,” said Mr. Elliott--“quiet and civil, respectful to her betters, and modest in her ways. I tell you what, Mr. Henry, you may go further and fare worse. Powderham has been telling me that he is sure she is rich.”

“That I am sure she isn’t,” he replied sharply. “She as good as told me she was not happy.”

“Happy!--what has that to do with it? Are you one of those young men of the day who think money all in all?”

“I!” cried Henry--“I care for money!--no, indeed; I like to have what is proper for my position, but otherwise money is my abomination. But I mean to say that I don’t think she is rich. I should say that she wished, on the contrary, to make herself rich. From some things she said, I almost fancy she wishes to keep a school.”

“A school! Gammon! She does not wish any such thing. Powderham says he hears----”

He stopped.

“What does Mr. Powderham say?” Henry asked, curiously.

“Now I think of it, he told me to keep his surmises to myself. I am sorry to balk your curiosity.”

“My curiosity!” cried Henry--“I have none. Why should I care?”

Mr. Elliott and Henry were well suited to each other, for each, with perfect unconsciousness, responded to the other’s intentions. Mr. Elliott could always be made to abuse the day, and Henry could always be teased. Both, therefore, exulted in their superiority, and enjoyed the position of superior knowingness.