Chapter X

“Can I speak with Miss Smith?” asked Mr. Lee, as he left the room of Sophy Brook late one evening in the beginning of December.

Sophy had been very ill. The violence of the attack had abated, but she did not rally. Dr. Lewis, who again attended, said, that although the case was not hopeless, the violence of the late attack had considerably modified his former opinion. There was, evidently, mischief within.

She one day surprised her mother in tears. Mrs. Brook thought she was sleeping, and was therefore indulging herself in a good cry by her bedside. But Sophy was either not sleeping, or else awoke, and heard sundry small sounds, as of tears and their consequences. She put back a little white curtain from the head of her bed, and asked her mother why she cried?

Mrs. Brook had none of her daughter’s intelligence. She was paralyzed by the sudden inquiry, and made no reply.

“Am I going to die?” asked Sophy with authority.

Mrs. Brook replied that she was sure she hoped not, but when people were very ill they sometimes did die.

Sophy said no more; but the next morning Mrs. Brook, who slept in her daughter’s room, reported to Nora that she had had a very bad night; restless and feverish. “And she kept talking about her besetting sin, and sometimes she called it an elephant, and sometimes a whale, and such nonsense.”

During all the day Sophy lay brooding, and towards evening expressed a wish to see Mr. Lee.

It was late when he came, and it was on leaving her room that he asked to see Nora.

He was taken to the drawing-room, in which she and Miss Willis were sitting.

“Sophy Brook desired me to come and make a request to you,” he said, as he approached the place where she was writing. “It is a curious one. She wishes much to see Mr. Devereux once more.”

Nora had risen to receive him, but turned back to her writing, to conceal the glow which came to her cheeks at this strange request.

“Mr. Devereux!” she repeated, as she gathered her papers together.

“If you consent to her wish she will further ask you to write and press him to come without delay.”

“But, Mr. Lee,” Nora said, recovered from her first surprise, “can I?”

She was thinking of the singularity of writing to a busy man a hundred and fifty miles away at least, to ask him to come to the sick-bed of a fanciful child.

“It can do no harm,” he replied; “it must be for Mr. Devereux to decide whether or no he consents to the request.”

“If you think so--” she said, hesitatingly; and she looked into his face to endeavour to gather from it what he thought. But it was as impassive as it was wont to be.

“I think,” he replied, “that Sophy is very ill; and when a person in weak health has a strong fancy, I would always yield to it when it is sane and possible. It is giving trouble to Mr. Devereux; but, as I before said, it will be for him to refuse or decline the request. There can be no harm in making it.”

“No.”

“Then I may tell Sophy you will write? It will be too late for this night’s post; but the letter might go in the morning.”

Nora acquiesced, and he left her.

There was no harm certainly in making the request; but the bare idea of his coming had brought a pulse into every limb of her body. She was tingling with agitation from head to foot as she sat down to write.

“How strange of Sophy!” she said to Miss Willis.

“It is the little romance of her life,” was the reply. “Mr. Devereux cannot be angry at such devotion.”

Nora wrote:

“MY DEAR COUSIN,

“You remember little Sophy Brook. She is no longer very little, and
is very ill. For two years she has been out of health, and, having
lately caught cold, is much worse, and, I fear, is in danger. She
has a great wish to see you once more--so great, that we cannot
refuse to tell you of it. I do not think she has ever forgotten
you, or the kindness you showed her; and if you could attend to
her wish--although I feel it is asking a great deal--it would cheer
and comfort her.

“Your affectionate cousin,
“NORA SMITH.”

In two days Henry replied--

“I will certainly attend to Sophy Brook’s request. This day I am
obliged to go down into Hertfordshire, but hope to be back by ten,
and will start by the night mail. I hope I may reach Riddlemere by
four o’clock. Poor Sophy! she was once my only friend.

“HENRY DEVEREUX.”

The letter was placed in Sophy’s hands in the morning, and a tear fell from her eyes at the last words. It was a strange little romance, Nora thought, thinking of what Miss Willis had said; and she kissed Sophy lovingly, with unconscious sympathy in her feelings.

All the morning Sophy lay quiet. Between twelve and one o’clock she heard a sound, and asked her mother to look out and see if it was Mr. Powderham arriving. He still came on certain days to the office at Riddlemere.

It was so, and Sophy begged her mother to go to him, and say she would be glad to speak to him. “You need not say anything about it,” she observed, “to any one else.”

Mrs. Brook stared, and thought her daughter must either be going to die, or go mad outright; but she implicitly obeyed her.

She shortly came back with a message that Mr. Powderham would be very happy to see Sophy, but he had an appointment at two o’clock, some miles off. He should be returning about four, and would go up and see her then, if she allowed it.

“That will do very well,” she replied, and relapsed into silence.

Henry arrived at four o’clock, as he had expected. He was shewn up into the room, where Nora awaited him. And all the agitation which for days had been stirring within her, and all the feelings of the years since they had parted, changed or melted away in his presence. Nothing could be more simple or commonplace than their meeting. There was no awkwardness, no doubt, no hesitation. Henry shook hands with her and then said,

“How is Sophy to-day?” as he might have done had they been in the constant habit of meeting.

Nora replied, and added, “It is very kind of you to attend to her wish.”

“I did not come wholly out of kindness,” he said. “I hope I should have come only on that account, but I had another reason.”

He spoke so entirely without feeling, or meaning, that it never even crossed Nora’s brain to imagine a flattering or sentimental idea to be contained in his words. She wondered what he meant, but did not presume to ask. When Sophy had been thus disposed of a silence came, and with the silence came a little awkwardness.

Nora was the one to relieve it. She said she would go and see if Sophy was inclined to receive him. She went, but almost immediately returned, saying she was not ready.

She then remembered hospitality, and begged Henry to have something to eat.

“There is cold luncheon ready in the dining-room,” she said. “Four o’clock is not an hour for dinner, I suppose, but if you would like hot things better, they will be ready in a moment.”

He declined the hot things, but accepted the cold offer; and as she rose to ring the bell said,

“Do not ring. I should like to try and find my way. Did they keep to the old plan of the house?”

And, receiving an acquiescence to this question, he left the room and left Nora alone. And then strange feelings stole over her; so strange that she sat lost in reverie. She went over, in those few minutes, all their singular acquaintance, the few happy meetings at the Spa, and the stormy close; and then that one meeting at Riddlemere, the recollection of which never failed to make her blood dance in her veins. And now he was here in her house after nearly three years’ absence; and all was cold and calm and passionless, all except her beating heart within.

She was roused by his voice at the door.

“Mrs. Ratcliffe came to fetch me, Miss Smith,” he said; “and Sophy wishes you to come too.”

Nora jumped up. Mrs. Ratcliffe had been in quest of a candle, for the passages were not yet lit, and now joined them at the door.

“Sophy sent me for Mr. Devereux, ma’am,” she said; “but the child begged me to ask you to come also.”

And so saying she led the way along the dark passages.

When the door of Sophy’s room was thrown open Nora felt bewildered. It seemed to be full of people. Two candles were burning on a table near a fire, and there stood Mrs. Brook and two maids of the house. By the side of Sophy’s bed sat Mr. Powderham, and behind him stood Mr. Lee. Miss Willis was also there.

Nora paused at the door, and looked at Henry who followed her, with perplexity and surprise; but he did not appear to be surprised; and when Mrs. Ratcliffe turned and touched his arm, followed her to Sophy’s bed.

“Here is Mr. Devereux, my dear,” she said, stooping over her. “Will you have a candle?”

“No, I don’t want light,” she replied, fretfully. “I want Mr. Devereux.”

“Here I am, Sophy,” he said, holding out his hand. “I am sorry you are so ill.”

“I want to speak to you, sir,” she said, taking no notice of the hand he held out. “I want to tell you, and to tell you before all these people, that I was the person who burnt the house. It kills me to tell it, but it has killed me worse to hide it.”

“I have often fancied it might have been so, Sophy,” Henry replied, and in a voice so calm and clear, no one could have imagined the storms that had been stirred by the subject. “Thank you for telling me. You will make a new man of me.”

“And do you forgive?” she asked, with a low, gasping sob.

“Forgive, Sophy! My poor child!” and he stooped down and kissed her, “there are too many things for which I need to be forgiven to talk much of forgiveness. But indeed I do forgive, and thank you.”

There was another sob from Sophy, and then a sound of a nose blowing by her bed. This was from Mr. Powderham. He was one of those men who, unless when things come in the routine of business, are always affected. Poor Sophy, making her dying confession, touched him. He blew his nose, and then said,

“Mr. Devereux, I beg your pardon. I understand now why Sophy Brook wished to have me here. I beg your pardon for my unjust suspicions; which, however, I will add, have long slept.”

“You were certainly very hard upon me, Mr. Powderham,” Henry replied. “But since the matter may be now set at rest, I would rather not, even in discussion, return to recollections of that time of horror.”

“It was because he was so hard that I was frightened,” Sophy cried in a shrill voice. “I thought if he was angry with you, what would he be with me.”

“How was it, Sophy?” Mr. Powderham asked, stooping towards her bed; the curiosity of the man putting other feelings to flight.

“I saw Mr. Devereux go into Miss Smith’s room, and he was there about five minutes; and then I saw him come out; and I wondered what he had been doing there; and I thought I would go and see. So I slipped away from Gran and mother and went in; and it was so dark I could not see if he had changed anything, so I lit the candle on the table; and just as I had lit it, I heard a noise, and I was afraid Gran would come and catch me, so I slipped out and left the candle. I remembered after I was in bed, but I never thought a little candle could do any harm.” And she ended with another sob.

“Well, never mind,” Mr. Powderham said soothingly; “it does not matter now. Why, the house is as fine as if there had never been an accident.”

“I did not care about the house,” Sophy cried, in the same shrill voice, “it was because you suspected Mr. Devereux that I was so unhappy. I meant every moment to tell, but I did not dare, and it has killed me.”

“Poor child!” Henry said kindly, “you will be happy now. You have made _me_ very happy, you know. We are tiring her, are we not?” he said, turning to Mrs. Ratcliffe; feeling that he was the person in whom it lay to end the scene.

She agreed, and the whole party began to move. Henry moved also, but after going a few steps went back again to the bed. “Good-bye, Sophy,” and he kissed her. “I am going back to London to-night.”

“Oh, must you?” she gasped.

“Yes, I must. God bless you, my poor child, and do not trouble about having made me unhappy any more. You have always been my kind friend, and now more so than ever.”

He touched her little hand, and left the room.

Nora had returned to the drawing-room, which was now lighted, and where also Mr. Powderham and Mr. Lee stood. Henry joined them there, and Nora now, for the first time saw him clearly, and saw how much he was changed. She agreed with Simon that it was probably caused in part by the shortness of his hair; he had formerly, as was said, been proud of it, and had worn it in a manner which, in a woman, would have been called coquettish; but all airs of that kind were at an end. His head had been shaved during his fever, and the hair had not yet attained its old growth. It was not, however, only the growth of the hair. His air, and, as Dickens would say, “deportment,” was altogether different--grave, quiet, and subdued; a quiet that was hardly natural, as of one who kept a rein over himself, which was tighter than it ought to be.

Henry had lingered for his few words with Sophy, and a few more with Mrs. Ratcliffe. When he entered the drawing-room, Mr. Powderham was making inquiries of Mr. Lee regarding Sophy’s confession. Mr. Powderham, as is known, did not like to be in the wrong; but, having been so glaringly in the wrong, he was anxious to be now in the right, by acknowledging he had been wrong. At the same time, he wished to go back--to draw forth all the circumstances, and make certain explanations. Regarding Sophy and her confession, he received little satisfaction from Mr. Lee. He was as impenetrable as to what had passed between them, as any father confessor could be. It was natural, he said, the poor girl should wish to relieve her mind of such a secret; and that was all he told.

When Henry appeared, Mr. Powderham turned to him. He was anxious to do the thing handsomely, so far as confession of error went; but at the same time he felt he could prove that, although he had been wrong, he might, and, from the circumstances, even _ought_, to have been right.

But when he renewed his apologies, and his attempts at explanation, Henry again arrested him.

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr. Powderham; you can talk of these things calmly, but I cannot. When I remember the conduct to which I was driven, and the consequences of my conduct, my mind becomes in a flame. I bear no ill-will, I assure you, but I would rather leave the past at rest.”

“So be it,” Mr. Powderham said, with the air of a martyr; and he gave a slight, very slight shrug of his shoulder, which was meant to express to whosoever would have the wit to understand him, that Henry was as mad as he had always supposed him to be.

“You cannot forbid me the making public what the poor child has said.”

“On the contrary, I shall feel very grateful if you will do it.”

Henry then passed on, and approached Nora, who had sat down. “I must wish you good-bye now,” he said.

Poor Nora’s heart sank down in her body like a lump of lead. Going in this haste; she was nothing then, and less than nothing, if there be such a quantity, in his eyes.

But she spoke, as was usual to her, with composure.

“Must you really go so soon? Will you not at least stay to dine?”

“Thank you, no; I have business to-morrow, and the sooner I am off the better.”

He held out his hand. She rose and gave her own.

“I do not think you knew,” he said, “how good a deed you were doing in writing for me.”

She shook her head.

“Thank you for it all the same. I hope I shall be a new man. Henceforward,” and he smiled for the first time, “I shall not shrink from the name of Riddlemere when the children speak of it.”

That smile was left to comfort Nora.

“Good-bye, Miss Willis,” he said, in a more cheerful voice than had yet been heard from him. “How d’ye do? and good-bye--for I think this is our first speaking. It is very long since you and I have met.”

After a word with the other two guests, he went. With Mr. Lee he was very little acquainted. Mr. Lee had been out of health during the period Henry lived at Riddlemere, and during the fire, and the time succeeding it, had been abroad. He was, however, interested in Henry, and would have been glad to follow and speak to him; but Mr. Powderham was determined to go over his explanations with _somebody_. He therefore held him fast while he showed how right he had been, although in the wrong.