Chapter I

Partly in hope that her trouble was over, and partly to practise that patience which she had set herself as a lesson, Nora ordered her carriage on the following morning, and spent the day in visiting the cottagers in a village some miles off.

She shrank from the sight of the work-people and James Field; but when beyond the precincts of her new home she breathed freely, and her spirit came back to her.

The occupation itself pleased her; the people were glad to see her, and their quaint out-of-the-world ways and speeches amused her. But there was a higher pleasure than this.

Henry had hoped that, when Nora came to visit her property, the way in which he was spoken of would teach her his value; and he would have been gratified could he have been present this day. His good looks and ready smiles had no doubt had a great effect in winning hearts; but these qualities, though they win favour, do not, when standing alone, move the affections. There had been a kindliness, a thoughtful desire to make all under him happy, which had told as much as the outward charm; and there were few houses in which he was not spoken of with warmth. Some were unconscious of his departure, and asked to speak to him; others had heard rumours of troubles, and anxiously inquired into their truth.

When the praises first began to fall on her ears, Nora blushed and was agitated; but pride and the dread of betraying herself soon came to her aid, and before they left the village she not only heard these eulogies with calmness, but in a kind of lofty manner called Miss Willis’s attention to the subject, expressing a composed regret that for one single moment other reports should have made an impression upon her.

On her return home she devoted the evening to an examination of the papers and plans which Henry, on that eventful morning, had placed in her hand.

Her inspection of these papers still further tended to raise him in her estimation. There was nothing in them betokening remarkable talent, and there were defects not only in composition, but here and there even in spelling; but they were characterized by a kind of determined industry, by very good sense, and, above all, by a most evident desire to fulfil her wishes; not only her expressed wishes, but that general wish for the well-being of the people which he knew to be her prevailing sentiment. There were, besides, lists of names with quaint little remarks appended, and here and there odd little sketches of buildings or out-houses, which were better described thus than by word--small characteristic touches which gave life to the dry details.

The examination interested and agitated her. Feelings of mingled joy and regret stirred her mind--joy in the conviction that he was worthy of her regard, in the faint hope that he had taken pleasure in acting for her; and regret, intolerable regret, in the thought of the events that had driven him away. Already the recall, that imploring recall of which poor Henry had dreamed, was stirring in her mind; but only stirring to be driven back again. For with such a secret in her heart, how could she act? How could she dare to invite him to her constant presence?

She lay awake thinking; at one moment feeling that her strength would bear her through--that all that regard which should not be indulged could be crushed out; and the next moment, as she vividly pictured future scenes, shrinking from them, from him, and from herself.

She rose up as unsettled and agitated as she had lain down; but she was happy, nevertheless. The stagnant life was stirred to its depths, and come what might in the present, the future smiled upon her. Its features were not distinct, but it lay with a golden gleam upon it.

It was in this cheerful state of mind that she went down to breakfast; but by the side of her plate there lay that which was to cloud the present and the future alike.

She saw the now well-known characters, and with eager fingers tore open the letter and read the words that follow:--

“Why were you born to be my enemy? It is just, perhaps, for God
knows we have deserved little at your hands; yet it was cruel to
beguile me with fair words, and then to undermine my peace as you
have done. What remains for me but to fly from a country in which I
dare no longer hold up my head? Had you summoned me to answer for
myself, had you allowed me that justice all men are allowed, I
think in that first moment my horror and surprise might have
convinced you of my innocence; but, even if permitted, such justice
is too late now. My mind, troubled and distracted, has no power to
satisfy my judges. It has no power to satisfy even myself; for
where is the proof of a thought to be found? Where in all heaven or
earth could I look for it? I dare not--I, strong in innocence, say
it--I dare not expose myself to the torture of such an inquisition
as that which must be held. If those who know me have entertained a
suspicion so vile, how could I convince a stranger? There lies the
hateful letter, to give the lie to every word I say. Farewell for
ever! They tell me you acted in kindness. If it be so, mistaken
though it was, I will not refuse to say God bless you for it! I ask
no answer to this letter. I need none. What are words to one who
can no longer show his face in the light of day?”

Miss Willis, who was presiding over the teapot, an occupation Nora particularly disliked, was startled by a sudden exit from the room. Nora had fled.

She had fled to conceal a great agony--an agony of mind she could not master. Sharply as Mr. Powderham’s letter had pierced Henry’s heart, so sharply did his letter thrust its iron into her soul. She was amazed and consciencestricken; so amazed as to feel for a moment’s time guilty of all of which Henry accused her.

It was only after standing for some minutes pressing her hand on her aching, beating heart, that she began to see more clearly. She might have been mistaken in refusing to summon him to exculpate himself--she could not then debate the point; but except for a few overwhelming moments she had never thought him guilty of anything but hate, and that hate she had wished to retaliate only by good. When once she felt cleared regarding her conduct and her motives, hope revived, and thought came to her aid. She saw it was no time for reflection, but for action, and almost at once her resolution was taken.

She went back to Miss Willis; apologized simply for her abrupt departure; explained with most deceiving openness that it had been caused by a vexation and annoyance that had upset her; and after relating the purport of that vexation, asked if she knew where Mr. Stephen Fanshawe could be found.

Miss Willis’s eyes sparkled as she replied that, feeling convinced his services would be required in this business, she had written to a friend who knew his movements a few days before, and found that he would be at home this day, in order to make preparations for receiving his boys on the 6th.

“I have no right to trouble him, but I must do it,” Nora said.

And Miss Willis, who had an idea in her head which completely blinded her to all other ideas concerning Nora, assured her that he would be willing, always willing, to act where he could do good.

Nora wrote this telegraph message:--

“_Miss Smith begs Mr. Fanshawe to hasten to Mr. Devereux, whom he
may prevent from rashly leaving England. Particulars by post._”

In the evening she received, with intense relief and delight, a return message.

“_I hasten to obey your commands._”

“You have now done all you can,” observed blind Miss Willis, “and you may rest satisfied.”