Chapter XIII

James Field went over to Mr. Powderham, on the same morning, with the letter he had spoken of.

This letter was from Mr. Devereux to Henry, in answer to one from him. It was on some money business. When Henry accepted Nora’s offer, Mr. Devereux had, after some difficulty, consented to advance him money for the payment of his little bills, on the condition that he should be repaid out of the first half year’s salary. On receiving, therefore, his money, Henry had kept to the stipulation. He had, however, a faint hope,--that hope which some men never fail to have, that certain persons will not act like themselves--that his father would not accept the payment, would, in short, excuse it; and even in repaying he threw out a slight hint that he might not be willing to receive it.

This hint Mr. Devereux either did interpret, or chose to interpret, as a doubt whether he would or would not accept the money earned from Nora, and his letter was addressed in that supposition. It began, therefore, in the usual style. It spoke of Henry’s “hateful employment,” of the degradation of working for what was his own; of Nora as an impostor, for pretending thus to give him his rights. This part of the letter ended in the usual manner, by advising the taking of what was his own in any manner by which the infernal laws of England permitted him to get it. It was, in short, a statement of the case between them, couched in the most violent language. But it went further. After this matter had been disposed of, there came another sentence. “You say that Miss Smythe’s house is nearly finished, and that she is shortly going to take possession. Were the elements of my mind, she should never set her foot in it. Some lightning should blast, or fire burn, before she should possess the fruits of iniquity.”

This letter was dated ten days before the time we have reached. It had enclosed a receipt for Henry’s money. He had, on receiving the letter, glanced at it anxiously enough, so much as to discover whether or not his little suggestion had been accepted. Seeing it was not so--seeing it contained nothing of interest or novelty--he laid it by (with the receipt), barely read. He saw, indeed, that it was a violent letter; but he imagined he knew every word. It was the language he had heard from his childhood--in which at one time he had in simple folly taken his part. If it made him shudder now, that new sensation was one which he dared not thoroughly sift. He merely glanced at it, therefore, and laid it by almost unread.

When he tore his papers, he took out this letter, and keeping the receipt, threw it with a passionate gesture on the floor--not from any remembrance of its actual terms, but from a feeling partly of hatred to its sentiments, and partly of dissatisfaction with himself and the position in which he stood; even with that service under Nora which at the moment seemed to have brought him misery.

He went out, leaving his work unfinished, not expecting that any visitor would enter his room, or, if he did, that he would find anything remarkable in it.

James Field had been curious about his disappearance during the morning. He wished to know what he was doing with himself, and he called on him to ascertain. On finding him out, he went up and looking about him, observed, with surprise, the appearance of disorder in the room.

Now it was during the inquiry, as he had said, that the thought presented itself that Henry _might_ have set fire to the house on purpose. Not that he _would_ have done it; he knew well enough that he was incapable of such a purpose, but that the circumstances made the suspicion possible. The idea came into his head, and was received--not accepted, not rejected--but put away for further thought.

When he entered Henry’s room, and perceived what he had been about, the idea suggested itself more strongly; and the evident haste with which he had torn his papers seemed to confirm the suspicion he had at first formed without sufficient evidence.

He looked about him, and saw among the torn papers the letter in Mr. Devereux’s handwriting.

“There will be more evidence there, I guess,” he thought, as he picked it up, knowing well the way in which that gentleman usually expressed himself regarding Nora.

But he did not expect what he saw. He even trembled as he read; for he had not been anxious to discover any real evidence on which to found such a charge. Not that he was in reality deceived by the words. He, as well as Henry, knew the language of Mr. Devereux too well to be astonished at any violence; but the extraordinary fitness of the evil wish did amaze and shock him. It was in the first instance so much more than he wished, that he dropped the letter and made a step towards the door.

But then again he paused, and with the self-deception which is part of the villainy of some characters, he said internally something about his duty. He would not decide, it must depend very much on circumstances; but if future events should give rise to further suspicion, that letter ought to be seen. He turned back and picked it up.

When he got downstairs he called the maid of the house, and desired her to tell Mr. Devereux he had called; and as he left her, he dropt the letter. She saw it, as he intended, and followed him to return it. He took it, and put it away for further consideration. Should Henry miss the letter he determined to own what he had done, giving as his reason its dangerous nature. Should he not miss it, he thought this explanation more agreeable than a confession that he had looked over another man’s torn papers.

This was the letter that was produced for the inspection of Mr. Powderham.

He was extremely shocked. Not knowing Mr. Devereux, he could make no allowance for the language--could read it in no vague sense. He was shocked and astounded, and laid it, with the circumstances of Henry’s behaviour, before his friend the lawyer.

This gentleman was just departing, and could not enter fully into the case. He told them they must take care what they were about; but for his part he thought the letter the most villainous production he had ever happened to read. He could believe _anything_ of a father and son who corresponded in such terms.

Mr. Powderham was, on this day, very busy, and had been summoned by a gentleman in an opposite direction to where Riddlemere lay. He desired James Field to say nothing; to go back and think well over all the circumstances, and to keep his eye on Henry. This last charge he repeated two or three times, not so much because he thought it necessary, as because he thought he ought to think it necessary. Notwithstanding his dislike to Henry, he found it difficult to work himself up to the belief that he was an incendiary. But he was working himself up.

When James Field returned, the first thing he heard was that Henry was gone. From the disorder of his room, he had supposed some such act to be in contemplation, but the promptitude of the proceeding amazed him--the folly of it astounded him.

“It looks like a guilty conscience,” he said, trying to persuade himself that he believed what he said.

This first day spent by Nora in her new home was inexpressibly dreary. For many months her heart had been set on it, and it failed to bring the joy that had been anticipated. Miss Willis was ill, Mrs. Ratcliffe was ill, and little Sophy was ill. The two last had been thoroughly overset by the fire, their nerves agitated, and their bodies chilled. They passed the day in bed. The little room which had been made ready for Nora was dull; it looked to the north-east, and to the entrance where the workmen were engaged in setting the heaps of rubbish to rights. She was afraid of going out for fear of meeting James Field, whom she saw among the workmen, and to whom she felt an intense dislike; within, if she spoke to Mrs. Brook, it was only to hear the story of the fire repeated. It was none of these things, however--for she was not one to fret at trifles--that caused the shadow to rest so wearily upon her new life. The source of pleasure had suddenly dried up.

Late in the day she was cheered by the arrival of Mrs. Elliott. When she was happy and busy she was not very tolerant of visitors; but the pleasure with which she welcomed a visitor on this dreary day, taught her better than words that the most self-reliant are not independent of the help of their fellow-creatures.

Mrs. Elliott had heard of the fire, but had not heard the particulars, and Nora had to relate all that she had gathered, of which she was already weary. The way in which the subject irritated her was very singular. Even speaking of it to kind Mrs. Elliott irritated her. The expressions of sympathy for her own loss and disappointment irritated her more than all.

“And so, in fact, I am in fault,” was Mrs. Elliott’s comment, after hearing the tale. “My unfortunate request! I daresay if the truth were known the foolish boy never blew out the candle at all, and there it is explained. A breath of wind at any moment may have blown the curtains to it.”

“They say he said he was sure,” Nora replied, emphatically. “But it does not signify how it was done. It was a mischance; such as might happen to any of us.”

“You must get away from all this mess and rubbish,” said Mrs. Elliott kindly, struck by something weary and vexed in her tone. “Pay me a visit. In a week or two things will look different.”

“Thank you; but no. I will stay, now I am come. Besides, I have been looking about, and find I can make myself more comfortable. My bed-room is bright and cheerful; I can turn that into a sitting-room.” Then suddenly thinking she had been ungracious, she added, “But I shall like to visit you later--when things are more settled.”

“Perhaps you are right, and it will be best; and I will try and persuade that foolish Mr. Devereux to come down for some shooting.”

There was a sudden bound in Nora’s heart; a sudden brightening in the dull landscape of her life. She drew back her head into a corner while she said,

“Do you know, then, that he is gone?”

“Yes; somebody saw him at the station this morning, and told us of it. Foolish, foolish boy! My old man is very much vexed.”

“I thought it hasty,” Nora said.

“It is the most inconsiderate thing that ever was done. Mr. Elliott says it may cause all kinds of injurious reports.”

When she got up and said she must go, Nora said she wished to ask her advice upon a point. It was on the subject of James Field. She told her exactly the history of their relationship, and also the advice she had received from Mr. Fanshawe regarding her relations.

“I agree with him, and mean to follow his advice,” she said; “but he allowed that Mr. Field was in a different position. I do not quite know how to behave. I do not like his looks, and yet there he is. He is my mother’s first cousin.”

“I think,” Mrs. Elliott replied, after a little consideration, “that his position here may guide you for the present. You can be very civil, but the fact of the situation he holds will prevent intimacy. I quite agree with Mr. Fanshawe. If, after a time, you find that Mr. Field is an educated man, and has the mind of a gentleman, you can assist him to rise a step or two higher.”

“Will you be so very kind as to go with me to speak to him?” Nora said. “I think I ought, and yet I shrink from it. I was certainly cold to him yesterday, and I am sorry. I dislike his looks, but I would be friendly if I could. You will help me?”

Mrs. Elliott acquiesced; and on her way to her carriage, which stood beyond the disordered court, they made a circuit to where James Field and some workmen stood. Nora bowed as graciously as she could when they got near, and he then took off his hat.

“This has been a bad job,” Mrs. Elliott said, thinking it was easiest for her to speak.

“Yes; but it is well it was no worse.”

This was said in that peculiar disagreeable manner he had of throwing hidden meaning into his words.

“We are quite satisfied with the degree of badness,” Mrs. Elliott replied lightly, looking at Nora and smiling; but Nora felt irritated, and would not speak.

After a moment, however, she recovered herself, and asked,

“How long will it take to rebuild this, do you suppose?”

“Indeed I can’t say.”

“Not long, I should think,” said Mrs. Elliott; “the walls seem for the most part uninjured.”

“There must be a regular examination, ma’am, before we can tell.”

He did not seem interested in the question, and Mrs. Elliott was trying to think of something to say next, when he prevented her.

Looking full at Nora, he asked,

“Is it true, ma’am, that you saw Mr. Devereux before he left this morning?”

She felt her blood boil, and a glow rise in her cheeks.

“Yes, I saw him,” she answered coldly.

“I think you were the only person who did see him, ma’am.”

“I don’t know. I saw him.”

The impertinence of his manner was more than she could bear, and after waiting for a moment uncertain, she turned to Mrs. Elliott,

“It is bad for you to stand, is it not? Let us go. Good evening,” she then forced herself to say, and they went.

“Proud vixen, I’ll spite you!” said James Field between his teeth.

“No, I certainly do not like his looks or his manner,” replied Mrs. Elliott to a strong expression of dislike on Nora’s part; “but you must make allowances. He feels awkward, and in trying to be easy, and show himself at his best, he does in fact show himself at his worst. You must wait awhile before you decide upon him.”

“I will try. I _must_ try,” Nora added, “for the feeling I have against him is perfectly unchristian.”

“Is it not strange,” Nora thought sadly, as she walked homewards alone, “that between me and all my relations there seems to be an antipathy. Am I never to love as I wish to love! Is there, on the contrary, always to be war?” She paused a moment in her sad reflections, and her mind reverted to the morning, to that short meeting with Henry; and as it was presented before her, there came a glow to her cheek and a tingling sense of pleasure ran through her veins. “Had it been war--had there been antipathy there?” By her sensations it hardly seemed so. It is true Henry had been distant and formal; but had there been antipathy between them? She did not consciously answer herself, but a pink sunset glow which was stealing over the landscape was reflected in her own thoughts, and she re-entered the house cheerfully.