Chapter XI: We must again pass over many months

A year, or nearly so, went wearily and drearily round, until, towards the end of September, Mrs. Elliott returned to Thorneybank, and returned so suddenly, that she herself bore the news of her arrival to Riddlemere.

Why the year had been so weary must be told; for Henry’s words, that henceforward he should not shrink when the children spoke of Riddlemere, had left a smile of hope in Nora’s breast, which promised other things.

But it was too soon apparent that, although possibly his feelings regarding Riddlemere itself and its inhabitants had undergone a change--that having been righted in the eyes of that world, he now felt able to hold up his head--although there was this change, there was no further change. He had no desire to be there; he seized no opportunity to be in Nora’s presence.

It was about six weeks after Sophy’s confession that this began to be apparent.

After the excitement of that time, the poor girl’s strength and vitality gave way. Although relieved, and thenceforward comparatively tranquil, she was exhausted, and roused herself to life no more.

On the morning of her death--for in a few weeks she died--she gave to Nora a gold pencil-case, one of her best treasures, and begged that it might be sent to Henry; and “Will you ask him,” she added, while a tear rolled down her cheek, “to come and stand at my grave?”

Nora promised, and the request was forwarded and complied with. Henry came on the morning of the funeral; won every heart, every portion of the hearts not already won, by his simple and kindly sympathy; walked by Nora’s side in the little band of mourners, and then--immediately on his return to Riddlemere--departed again.

He said he must be in London early on the following day. His lips were always true, and it was, therefore, no doubt true; yet Nora felt blank with disappointment. Was it to be ever thus? Was the hope of his friendship, was the hope of union with him and her cousins in the common interests of life, for which her lonely heart craved, to be for ever deferred?

This was all she said. Since her eyes again had rested upon him, that dread secret that had once been faced was driven back into the recesses of her soul.

Disappointment preyed upon her spirits and told upon her health. At Easter Mrs. Ratcliffe, observing her pale looks, advised a change. All the inhabitants of Riddlemere had felt the loss of poor Sophy, and, attributing Nora’s dejection partly to that cause, she remarked that it would be better for them all to make a break. Would she not go to see her guardian in London?

But Nora had an invincible repugnance to London. She hardly knew why, but the real cause was this. She felt she could not escape a visit, perhaps many visits, to Annabella; and at this moment it was a positive pain to her to think of entering Henry’s house.

Although she refused to think of London, she did not, however, oppose the idea of a change; and while she was considering the subject, with the listless consideration which is given to a point of profound indifference, her resolution was suddenly taken by the reception of a letter from Henry.

In this letter he told her he had decided on sending Simon to school, and, as Annabella would be lonely after his departure, he ventured to ask her to receive her for about three weeks.

Almost while she was reading the letter Nora came to a decision on her plans. She would go to the Spa after Easter, and there receive Henry when he brought Annabella for the proposed visit.

A great deal of work is done by the mental powers unconsciously. While Nora was reading, some inward suggestion was made, that there would be less awkwardness to Henry in paying her a visit at a public place like the Spa than in paying a visit at her own house. It was very suddenly that the little suggestion was made and, strange to say, it had never struck her before. But no sooner was it made than the decision was formed; and after Easter, with some zest and hope of pleasure, she left Riddlemere.

The request was in itself exhilarating, and, although the tone of Henry’s letter had been more formal, more cold than any she had yet received, she endeavoured to forget the tone, and to dwell on that overture of peace and friendliness which the request conveyed.

Henry’s letter had been very short and concise, but for the first time it had had a beginning and an end; the abruptness of feeling and agitation was over. It began “Dear Miss Smith,” and ended with “Faithfully yours.” On the words of the letter there was little to comment; but this calm and commonplace beginning and end had caused a pang, which, if Nora had been disposed to examine herself, might have shown her how far beyond friendship her hopes extended.

As was said, however, she endeavoured to forget, or to explain away the formality of the tone, and to accept the request with hope and gratitude. But again all her hopes were blighted. Henry brought his sister to the Spa, but so arranged his plans, that, with perfect truth he was able to say he must be in London early on the following morning. He arrived at the Spa, therefore, at five o’clock in the afternoon, and left again by the 6.30 for London. Deducting the comings and goings, he allowed three quarters of an hour for his visit to Nora.

And even this three quarters of an hour all felt to be too long. He accepted the proffer of tea, which in a slight degree broke the dull formality of the visit, but cold and dull and formal it was in no common degree.

A few arrangements were made for Annabella’s visit. She was to stay with Nora while she remained at the Spa, and then to have the pleasure of a week at Riddlemere.

“And when that is over,” Henry said, “I will, if you will allow me, send Mademoiselle down to fetch her.”

Up to this point Nora, trying to overcome the formality, had exerted herself to talk; but when this blow fell, her sentences became as measured as those of Henry. It was like two persons talking by machinery.

Towards the end of the visit a sharp cry from Annie d’Alberg was heard upstairs. Miss Willis, who had been one of the agreeable party described, but who, always backward and timid, had done little but make tea and ask a few questions, rose up and said she would see after her. But Nora prevented her.

There were in her heart so many bitter thoughts, that it was a relief to escape, even from this visit, which, it appeared, was to be the only one she was destined to have.

No sooner had she left the room than the manner of Henry changed. The frost was broken up. The thaw had come.

“Do you ever see Mr. Fanshawe now, Miss Willis?” he asked.

Miss Willis had not a lively imagination, and even now drew no deductions from the sudden change, but she did start at the altered tone of voice.

“We have not seen him of late,” she replied; “not for eight or nine months, I think?”

“I saw him last week,” Henry pursued. “He was engaged, as usual, in doing good.”

“Yes, always that,” was the hearty reply.

“Yes.” He paused for a moment, then went on--“It was here, at this Spa, that you once spoke so warmly about him. Do you remember? It was when we discovered that he was a common acquaintance.”

“Oh, yes, I remember very well.”

“I have not taken to the doing good yet myself,” and he half smiled, “but I no longer look on a life devoted to benevolence--is that the proper word to use--in the light I did then.”

“I should guess that,” Miss Willis said frankly.

“Why? Why should you guess?”

“Because you look altogether changed.”

“I look as I ought, then,” he replied, his countenance which had brightened clouding over. “I am changed, and I have had enough to change me. Oh! Miss Willis, do you know what it is to be so oppressed with shame that you sometimes hardly dare to lift up your head? No,” he suddenly paused in his vehement speech, and laughed outright. “How should you, and why should you?”

Before anything more was said, Nora returned, and brought with her Annabella, who had been playing upstairs. Annie had cut herself, and was to go to bed.

The explanation was hardly made before Henry found it was time to go. He kissed Annabella, repeated what he had said--that Mademoiselle should fetch her--and departed; departed, leaving a feeling of almost despair behind him.

In the course of the evening that followed, Miss Willis repeated to Nora what had passed in her absence. A person of commonly lively fancy would have made something of it. But one part of the subject only had attracted the conscious attention of Miss Willis; and it was with this part that she coloured her whole narrative. This part was the evident influence that Stephen Fanshawe was exercising over Henry, and how that influence was improving him.

Now Nora had almost ceased to think of improvement in Henry. He was to her only too perfect; and never had his looks, his voice, his tone, his manner, his everything, seemed more perfect than on this day. The words of Miss Willis, therefore, first irritated and then saddened her. In the colourless narrative she had had no part; and, though it was something to think of, though it did give her some insight into his habits and ways of life, there was no hope for her in the picture. He could have friends, and go hither and thither; but she was nothing in his life.

There came another visitor to Nora at the Spa, and he returned with her to Riddlemere. It was old Mr. Fanshawe. He was one of those to whom London is a necessity. He liked its light bread and its muffins, its ceaseless letters and ceaseless newspapers. Once only had he made up his mind to accept Nora’s pressing invitations to Riddlemere, and on that occasion a fit of the gout had prevented his carrying out the good intention. But the feeling that he ought to see the property of his ward sat like a nightmare on his conscience; and at this time the pressure on his conscience forced him to obey it.

On his return to London, he observed to his son how greatly Nora was changed.

“In what way?” Stephen asked.

“Why, in every way,” was the reply. “She used to be self-willed and haughty, and now she has no will at all. It is all calmness and submission. Not that I like self-will in a woman. I don’t mean to find fault; but I like a little spirit; we want it in this dull world. I used to be afraid of her enthusiasm. I thought she would saddle herself with all the sons of Adam; but she is as sober now as Mr. Conway himself. Above all, she used to be so confident; if she did not say so, I saw she thought that all her plans were perfect plans; and now she plainly says that ‘whatever she does in life, she is sure to make a mistake.’ What do you think about her?”

And he looked keenly at his son. For a certain unconscious shrinking from discussing Stephen’s affairs with him, had put some ideas into Mr. Fanshawe’s head.

“I think nothing,” he said composedly. “But I am very sorry to hear what you say.”

“Then you have not observed it. When did you see her last?”

“Last June. Ten months ago, and then only for a day. But,” he added, smiling, “I must make an opportunity to go and see after her. I consider her happiness my particular charge.”

Mr. Fanshawe’s budding ideas were put to flight.

“Well, do so,” he said, “you will find it as I say. I suppose the girl’s life is too lonely. She ought to be married. Moralists would say she is improved. But I like a little spirit, I own. Always within due bounds,” he added, prudently.

Stephen Fanshawe could not forget what his father had said. Nor could he explain the change in Nora. He had renewed his acquaintance with Henry, and from him had heard of the late disclosure at Riddlemere. He had hoped that this foolish barrier being swept away, the relations of Nora with her cousins were intimate and easy. But his father’s words made him think. His own disappointment had rather increased than damped his desire for her happiness; and as people of ardent desires will feel, he felt as if her happiness was his special charge.

Although he and Henry had renewed their acquaintance, they rarely met. He was occupied, and tied to his home. Henry was extremely busy, and only when occasionally in London for a Sunday, went down to Summerhill to visit him. During all this summer both were unusually busy, and both tied to their business, and Stephen could think of no reason for intruding himself on Nora’s privacy, nor could he make any observation of Henry’s conduct. Yet the idea that there was something to be discovered, haunted him.

It was Henry who gave him the opportunity he sought.

One day, at the end of a sultry July, he went down to Stephen, and asked if he would take a flying tour with him.

“Simon and Annabella are going with a kind lady to Broadstairs. The invitation extended to me; but I have not spirits for visiting. Yet I feel worn and wearied, and wish for novelty. I have never seen the Swiss mountains. Could we fly to Switzerland for a fortnight, and see something worth seeing?”

Stephen paused over the request. Formed an instantaneous plan, and said in reply,

“Have you ever seen the English lakes?”

“Never!”

“Then let that be our plan. I have only ten days to spare, for I have promised to take charge of two unhealthy boys during the holidays, and during those ten days I wish much to pay a visit at Riddlemere. We can take it on our way to the Lakes?”

“What sort of a visit?” Henry asked, with a pink spot on his cheek.

“A very short one. Of course we cannot intrude upon two ladies, except for a day. We will arrive in the morning, and go on our way in the evening.”

* * * * *

Henry gave his consent to the plan, from simple reluctance to say no. But he anticipated no pleasure from his visit to Nora, and he was correct in his anticipations. The day was not a pleasant one.

The chief cause of failure was in the hours of the visit. A visit from twelve to five is permissible only to intimacy. When acquaintance, however slight, arrive before dinner, pass the evening together, separate for the night, and meet again in the morning, the strange particles melt together and awkwardness evaporates. But there can be little hope of strange particles melting together in broad daylight, where there is nothing to assist conversation, and no special thing to be done.

And on this occasion the particles themselves were of the most unyielding nature, for constraint is that one thing that might and courage cannot overcome. Henry was constrained with Nora, and Nora, because of his constraint--a constraint which, in her phraseology, was called coldness--was constrained with him. Stephen would have been at his ease with Nora, had she permitted it; but she, on this first meeting--and seeing again that affliction of his, which ought to have made her doubly careful of wounding his peace--felt a shame at having misled him, which gave unwonted timidity and gentleness to her manners. Even Miss Willis, partly feeling guilty both to him and Nora, and partly catching the general infection, added her mite to the awkwardness of the meeting.

It was, indeed, so awkward a day, that, had it not been so wretched, it would have been laughable. Even wretched as it was, Nora, who was most alive to the difficulties of the case, could hardly help smiling over them.

At the close of the day there came a few moments of relaxation, a few moments which left on Nora’s mind a happier impression than the rest of the visit could have done. They were sitting in the drawing-room shortly before the departure of the guests. Stephen Fanshawe began to talk to Miss Willis about her step-mother. The conversation was not intended to be private, for he did not lower his voice, yet both Henry and Nora felt that could they at that moment have consulted the book of etiquette, it would most certainly order them to talk.

They were sitting near each other, by Nora’s writing-table; but having during the day exhausted every topic that human ingenuity could bring forward, this sudden command of conscience, or good manners, to converse, was not an easy one to obey. After casting his mind about in every direction, Henry gave it up in despair. But desperation made Nora bold, and the moment having arrived when she felt she must speak or die, she, in her desperation, caught hold of one of those very topics which during the day had been forbidden. A recurrence to past times.

“Mr. Fanshawe was speaking of building cottages just now,” she said. “Do you remember the plan of a cottage you left with me? It has been much liked, and we have followed it almost exactly in two that have been built.”

She had spoken in the very thoughtlessness of the moment’s desperation; and no sooner were the words said, than her heart leaped into her mouth with terror at what she had done. What would he think of her for thus bringing forward what he so determinedly avoided?

But Henry took the observation quietly. He was at the moment as thankful as she was to find a new subject on which they might converse.

“No, I had forgotten it,” was all he said; but as at the same instant she laid her hand on a large kind of scrap-book which was beside her on the table, and opened it, he rose, and came behind her to see it.

“I stuck all the papers you left me into this book,” Nora observed, with ease, and her usual simplicity of manner; for the quiet way in which he had replied, and his apparent interest, had put to flight unpleasant sensations.

“Did you, indeed! I am afraid that was an attention far more flattering than they deserved.”

Nora’s head drooped over the book, and she nervously turned over the pages. No words could have been more prosaically spoken than Henry’s--they were in fact a simple expression of what he thought, but Nora was suddenly conscious that she had paid them a too flattering attention, and that to pay that attention had been at one time her only consolation. Losing her ease and self-possession, she bent down her head and blushed.

But Henry saw nothing, guessed nothing of the effect of his words. Standing behind her, he could not see her blushes, and had he done so it would never have occurred to him to guess the cause. He saw of her sudden emotion far less than sightless eyes which were at a distance.

He stood waiting behind her, until she came to the page which contained the plan.

“Oh! yes, I remember now,” he observed, looking at it with interest; “but it is not perfect. I have been looking at many plans of cottages of late, and some I have seen are both better and cheaper than this one.”

He then began to talk to her of his present employment; told her how desirous was the guardian of the youth whose property he managed to improve the dwellings of the poor; and, taking the book from her hand to place it on the table, traced with his finger on the paper the varieties in some of those cottage plans of which he spoke.

For more than five minutes all went easily and pleasantly--so easily and pleasantly, that neither of them remembered their own identity; that they were that Henry and Nora between whom there never had been, and it seemed there never might be, peace. But a sudden recollection of identity came, and all was changed. In turning over a page in the scrap-book, Henry’s eyes fell on a list of names, which carried back his thoughts to what he called that time of horror. It had been written in haste the day after the fire, while arranging and tearing his papers. A blot on the paper, and a scrawled and excited look in the characters, brought vividly before him the torturing feelings and passionate conduct of that day. He thought of his father’s letter, recollected the hasty speeches which he had himself spoken against Nora--thought of all the folly and all the madness at that time, and of his whole life, and with a sudden change of manner and countenance, he closed the book and returned to his seat. And again constraint paralyzed his powers and made him dumb.

Nora could not but see that something had occurred to displease or annoy him. Could not but feel the influence of that annoyance. Felt indeed frozen with dismay, at the fear of having offended. But there was a great difference between Henry and Nora, as there is perhaps in this respect between most men and women. Nora was almost always outwardly equal to any emergency. It was even a fault in her manners that they were too impassive.

On this occasion, instead of seeming to observe his annoyance, she added a few words on the subject of cottages; then quietly, and with dexterity, slid away into some common-place topic of which she caught hold.

And Henry felt that she had seen his discomposure; felt that she had understood and endeavoured to cover it; felt that she had set him at ease again; and was grateful, and humbled.