Chapter I

Mr. Powderham was the famous attorney of the county in which the Spa stood. He knew everyone’s affairs, was everyone’s counsellor, and the master of many minds. In his hands was the property Mr. Fanshawe wished Nora to purchase. As soon as he had heard from Nora that she liked the looks of the country, her guardian, anxious to bring the matter to a decision, wrote to Mr. Powderham on the subject, and hearing from him that in his hands the affair had been placed, and that an immediate settlement was agreeable to him, desired him to wait on Nora and learn her wishes.

His visit roused her from the apathy into which Henry’s departure had thrown her. For he did depart. Miss Willis had assured her that he would return, that when his passion was past he would be sorry for the language he had used. She had herself hoped it might be so. But he went the morning after the scene had occurred, and a day or two afterwards his departure was mentioned by Mrs. Elliott.

Mrs. Elliott was a lady who was always suspecting, perhaps hoping for the discovery of incipient romances. She had suspected one on the present occasion, but Henry’s sudden departure puzzled her. On the evening of the day of his visit to Nora he appeared at dinner grave and gloomy. She accused him of abstraction, and archly suggested that he had left his thoughts with some inhabitant of the Spa. He shortly replied that he had left the Spa long before she did, and had been to a neighbouring town. Which was true, for he had walked there and back as a means of quieting his excited thoughts. She was surprised, but said no more. A few people came to dinner, and Henry was allowed to be as gloomy as he pleased.

The following morning he told her he must go to London. When asked why, he replied, “On disagreeable business.” There was nothing more to be said, and Mrs. Elliott was obliged to lay by her suspicion of a dawning romance. When next she saw Nora she mentioned his departure. She had given up her romancing, and mentioned it casually. After a moment’s thought, Nora said,

“Did Mr. Devereux tell you that he had discovered we were relations?”

“No,” Mrs. Elliott cried, in surprise. “He came home in a very odd, a very gloomy state of mind, but he said nothing of the sort. The discovery was not unpleasing, was it?” And she smiled confidently.

“It annoyed him,” Nora said, “and perhaps with justice. There were old feuds between our families, and he was displeased at having been forced into friendliness without his consciousness and without his will.”

Mrs. Elliott looked full of curiosity, but she only said,

“That was not very wise on Mr. Henry’s part, was it?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he had cause to complain, though, indeed, I did not intend to mislead. Has he ever spoken to you of a Miss Smythe?”

“Once--only once. Are you Miss Smythe?” with a sudden burst of intelligence. “Oh, yes, of course you are. That explains it all!”

“I changed one letter of my name when I came of age.”

“And why? Forgive me if I ask curious questions.”

“I dislike the name of Smythe,” Nora said resolutely; then, with a slight pink on her cheek, added, “I always hoped also to meet, as I have done most unexpectedly, a relation. I grieve for our quarrels, and I wished we might be friends before prejudice and hate interfered. But it has been in vain.”

“I know very little,” Mrs. Elliott observed after a moment. “He once spoke to me about Miss Smythe; and, to say the truth, what he said was so foolish, that I have avoided the subject ever since.”

She had paused to consider what words she should use. Henry had, in fact, in speaking once of his future prospects, alluded to the enormous riches which only “one life” withheld from him; and when Mrs. Elliott had sagely said, “One life is as good as another--I advise you not to dwell on such an unchristian thought,” he had entered excitedly on his defence, speaking bitterly of the Miss Smythe whom he had little reason to love, but whose life, he assured her, was a matter of total indifference to him. She might live as long as she liked for anything he cared; but if she died he should not mourn in sackcloth----; and a good deal more to this purpose.

Nora soon changed the subject. Her conscience had reproached her for the little mystery she had made; and, as a point of duty, she had determined to tell Mrs. Elliott who she was; but the subject was annoying, and she escaped from it, after begging her not to talk of what she had heard.

The knowledge that Henry was gone did not raise her spirits, and, as was said, depression stole over her, until aroused by Mr. Powderham’s visit. She had felt that life was over, that in her failure to win her cousin, every purpose of existence was at an end; and it was not until he began to speak, and to point out all on which she must decide, that she found life was not yet begun.

Mr. Powderham had been amused at the idea of coming to converse with a young lady of eighteen; still more was he surprised at finding that she had an opinion. His idea of the capacity of his fellow-creatures was not high, and instead of thinking the gift of common sense a common one, he was accustomed to say that there was not above one sensible man in a century. He, of course, was the representative of that rare class in the nineteenth century.

Nora did not enter on business--not, that is to say, on the buying and selling part of the business; but finding that her guardian had decided on the purchase, and that the settlement would be immediate, she had many questions to ask regarding the state of the property--questions which showed Mr. Powderham that he had to deal with an independent mind, not with that which he preferred, a puppet.

The property belonged to a bad family. Mr. Powderham was anxious to dispose of it without much talk on the subject. A good price was, of course, desirable; but an immediate sale--a sale without advertisement--was still more desirable. This Mr. Fanshawe knew, and Nora, therefore, was to become the possessor before the world in general knew that a sale was decided on.

She suddenly found herself the mistress of an enormous property--one on which the responsibilities of property had never been felt. There was also another weighty question pending. There was no house. She must decide on the spot where she would build, on the style of building, and the thousand questions which such an important subject must raise. It was indeed like the beginning of life, and for the moment her disappointment faded away.

It was on the subject of this house that Mr. Powderham found her capable of an independent opinion. He had his own opinion--a strong one. There was a house for sale belonging to a private person, which was capable of becoming the groundwork of a large family mansion, and which a small sum might make suitable for immediate occupation.

But this house was distasteful to Nora. It was close to the Spa; it was several miles from the part of the property which attracted her--a poor and populous part--and it was built in the style of a modern villa; a style for which, in her residence at Cheltenham, she had acquired a great dislike. One of these objections might have been overruled, but the three together formed a phalanx that was invincible, and Mr. Powderham, to his great surprise, found himself foiled. Not that he had any personal interest in the matter, but when he gave advice he liked to have it taken; he was not fond of man or woman who differed from him.

Nora, accustomed to have her own way, and having no knowledge of Mr. Powderham’s character, spoke out her opinions fearlessly, and attempted no sweetening of her rebellion. She was very civil and very much obliged for his advice, but she did not like it, and so the matter ended. He was perfectly civil also, and showed no vexation; but he disliked her, took a prejudice against her, and thenceforward saw all she did through a prejudiced medium.

Nor was he conciliated when, three or four days afterwards, she wrote to ask his advice on a site she had found and chosen for her house. It was five miles from the Spa. On the other side of the property there lay some beautiful green and sloping meadows, which seemed born, if such an expression may be used, to be enclosed for a cultivated demesne. On these meadows, in a pretty position, stood an old farm-house, from which the present inhabitant, Nora had ascertained, would be glad to be removed. This farm-house was built of white brick, with a dark red roof, lightened by tall chimneys and pointed windows. It took her fancy, and she planned to make it the private portion of the intended house, and to add the rest in the same style.

“Here is my plan,” she said to Miss Willis, having sketched and lightly coloured the future mansion. The old part formed one side of a square. Then was added a long low front, and then another side to the square. It looked, on paper, as large and roomy as Aladdin’s palace, and Miss Willis opened her eyes.

“It will be a long while before your family can inhabit such a house,” she said.

“_My_ family,” Nora said, laughing. “Yes, indeed, I hope it will. But I must have a house for my friends, must I not?” She stopped, and then added, “Perhaps you are thinking, as I do myself, that I have no friends. But I must be ready for them in case they come. If my mother and her children should want a home, must I not be prepared? And should my cousins, the young Devereux, need amusement and change, I would offer it if I could. Though I have been disappointed, I do not mean to give them up. What should I care for this house, or any other thing, if it was not to give pleasure to others?”

“You are quite like Mr. Fanshawe,” observed Miss Willis, and she sighed as she spoke.

The site, with the plan, was, as has been said, submitted to Mr. Powderham; but though approved, he was not conciliated by it. The place was so well chosen, the plan so feasible, and the inquiries that had been made so very much to the point, that he was quite disgusted. Had he suggested it to Nora, and she accepted it from him, he would have loved her much; but, since the contrary was the case, he loved her little; and though perhaps the inference he drew was not a logical one, he spoke of her thenceforward as “that foolish woman,” tapping his forehead when her schemes and plans were talked of in his presence.