Chapter XIII

This visit had taken place in July. At the end of September Mrs. Elliott suddenly appeared at Riddlemere.

She came, asking largely for Nora’s sympathy. She had gone abroad with a sister--her only sister--apparently doomed to death. She returned with her not only destined to live, and live in health, but destined also to be married. This sister was many years younger than Mrs. Elliott, and was, and ever had been, the great interest of her life. She was now “insanely happy,” as she herself described herself, in the prospects opening before her.

In the two months--two dreary months that had elapsed after Henry’s visit--a change had come over Nora. That day, constrained and painful as it had been while passing, had left a kind of fragrance on her memory. It was the only day she had ever passed in his society; it was, with the exception of their early acquaintance, the only time when she had seen him in quiet--not in the hurry of going and coming. After his departure, she lived upon the recollection of this day; going over the scenes, the conversations, the small events of the day, again and again in her fancy. At first this enjoyment had been unconscious; but gradually Nora came to see, and finally to blush over the tendency of her reflections; and when at last this was perceived, she could deceive herself no more.

It was in this respect that she was changed. She faced the secret of her soul, and although she scarcely attained the idea of overcoming it, she determined not to be its slave. Looking backwards, she saw how it had poisoned her life--not her happiness only, but her life and character, poisoning with the moral poison of selfishness--how from the first moment that the fate of this cousin had interested her, she had given herself up to the thought of him, secluding herself from other interests, and to a great degree cutting herself off from common sympathies.

With Nora to acknowledge was to endeavour at least to reform. And it was when in the first ardour of her reformation that Mrs. Elliott came.

She came full of all the cares, thoughts, hopes, plans, arrangements, large and small, of an approaching wedding; and, for the first time, she found in Nora a willing and sympathising listener. To care or sorrow she had always been a kindly friend, but sympathy with the trifles which form a large part of life was new. Her mind had always been wandering after other things, too much absorbed to come down to common life.

When Nora first understood that there was going to be a marriage at Thorneybank, and that she was being invited, a bright light flashed over the future; but a few more words from Mrs. Elliott damped her expectations.

“I ask _you_, Nora,” Mrs. Elliott added, “as my own peculiar friend. But I am not going to have a great wedding--not a party; and I will tell you why. Oh! Nora, you do not know how good my old man has been. I never knew before how good he was. You know how willingly he went abroad with me when I was unhappy; and he behaved so like an angel all the winter that, as soon as ever my fears were relieved, and I saw Sybilla recovering, I proposed to come home. That was in March. But he said no, it would be safer to remain; and, as I thought it might be so, I gladly consented. But the reason of his proposing to stay on was that his sharp eyes had seen, what I never saw, the beginning of what has now happened. And he knew what joy it would be to me to put Sybilla into such hands as Colonel Greville’s; and he knew how easily the hopes of a man no longer very young are dashed, and how much more easily he could see Sybilla in our foreign life than in the quiet life of England. And he would not stir. And we have been cruizing, and travelling, and meeting Colonel Greville again and again; and suddenly it was all settled, and we set off home. But now for my reason,” she added, smiling. “You must know, Nora, that he has, and has always had, a monomania against wedding-parties. When he hears of the showing of trousseaux, and the accumulation of presents, and of twelve bridesmaids in veils, and such things, he becomes fit for an asylum; and so, as he has been so good I thought I would please him by having the quietest wedding man ever had. And Sybilla is as pleased as he is. It is a blow to me. But am I not right?”

Disappointed as she was, Nora could not but heartily say she was right.

During this quiet visit at Thorneybank Mrs. Elliott, busy as she was with other concerns, was so struck with the change in Nora, that she speculated much on the cause.

“I wonder what she is thinking of,” she observed one day, as she stood at her husband’s library window and watched Nora as she walked.

“Who is thinking?” asked Mr. Elliott.

“Nora. She is changed, and the whole thing puzzles me. She is not in high spirits; but then she never had high spirits; and I don’t think that is the change I mean.”

“I think she is always a very proper-behaved young lady.”

“Yes, that always; but she is very much changed--very much improved. I always liked and admired her, but now I love her. I used to feel abashed when she asked me to call her Nora; but now I feel inclined to call her dearest, and all sorts of fancy names. She _is_ changed. You must own it.”

Mr. Elliott was very reluctant ever to own anything when called upon; but at last he said, unless he had forgotten, or unless the spending of a year abroad had made him prize English beauty, he thought she was prettier than she used to be.

“I think so too. So much more play of countenance; so much softer in look as well as manner. But what is the cause? I think there must be a cause. Have you any guess what it is?”

“No,” he said, resolutely, “I have no guess at all on the subject. But I guess what _you_ think.”

“I feel sure there must be something between those young people. It is no new thought. I always thought so, perverse as all the circumstances of their acquaintance seemed. But what is it?--what is the matter? I was talking last night to Miss Willis about Henry Devereux, in whom she is much interested. She was telling me how changed he is; changed out of all knowledge, she said.”

“I don’t believe a bit of it,” observed Mr. Elliott in a mutter.

“She says so; but when I tried to discover what had changed him, she gave me no hint of what I imagine to be the case. She said he was changed by the misfortunes of his family. I said I thought they were unlikely so entirely to crush the spirit of a young man of his age and temperament; and she said it was because he felt himself to be the cause of all the trouble. But that is nonsense. I wish I could see him and tell him so. Not that I believe he really thinks so!”

“Nor more do I.”

“Then I think you feel like me, that there is some hidden cause for the change in both these young people, and that it is most probably connected with some quarrel or foolishness between them, which a little intercourse would set to rights. I must bring them together here, and exercise my own intellect upon them. I wish I could get Henry here to-morrow.”

She said this thoughtfully, as if she was considering some step that might be taken. Mr. Elliott laid down the book which had occupied him during the conversation, and now said gravely,

“Bring them together, my dear, if you please, whenever it can be done in a natural way. But, if you will take my advice, you will leave the matter alone. That young Mr. Henry has quicksilver instead of blood in his veins, and anybody who undertakes to manage him will bring themselves and him into trouble. And I very much doubt whether you would find Miss Nora an easy task. Depend upon it, if she fancied you speculated on her thoughts, and made designs even for her happiness, her maiden pride would break out into a hundred fiery bristles. No, no, Greville and Sybilla would have been difficult subjects to design for, but they would have been lambs in your hands compared to those other young people.”

“I would not think of designs if I could see how they are to meet; to meet, as I mean, familiarly. Nora cannot receive him at Riddlemere, and I am their only mutual acquaintance. Who can bring them together, if I do not?”

“Bring them together, my dear, if you please, but naturally--not non-naturally. Leave it alone till Christmas. At present--it will not be for long, but at present,” shaking his head, “we are allowed to keep Christmas like our forefathers. While we are allowed such indulgences, let us have a merry Christmas, and invite our friends and relations. Ask Henry and his young ones, and then he and Miss Nora will meet, and can’t help themselves.”

“You are right, as usual,” said his wife; and she put present designs out of her head.

When Christmas approached, she gave the purposed invitation to Henry. It was gratefully accepted for Annabella and Simon, and he promised to give as much of his own company as he could. Mrs. Elliott knew that she must be content with this promise; and she then gave her invitation to Nora, to pass a long Christmas in her house, including weeks on each side of it.

In the first instance Nora declined, and with a regret so intense--for she guessed who would be at Thorneybank--that it made her more resolute in her refusal. The reason of that refusal was a very simple one. For three years she had kept her Christmas at Riddlemere, and the chief happiness of her autumns had lain in her preparations for giving pleasure at that time. Had it not been for the hope of meeting Henry, she would not have even had a wish to leave home, and the knowledge that she did wish it made her resolute not to give way.

But it so happened that a fortnight before Christmas the step-mother of Miss Willis was taken dangerously ill, and Miss Willis was sent for. As soon as Mrs. Elliott heard of this she returned to the charge, said she would not and could not leave Nora alone; and Nora then very gratefully gave way. Some of her plans were postponed; some she would be near enough to direct. She and little Annora therefore removed to Thorneybank for a time. Simon and Annabella arrived a few days afterwards, but Henry did not come till Christmas Eve, and then only for a few days.

Being a person who, whatever she did, did it with her might, Nora had considered much of late how best to deal with herself, and had found that occupation and society, and the being driven out of the routine of life, was the most salutary remedy for her secret ailment that she could use. In this respect, therefore, she was a changed person. She exerted herself in society to the uttermost, gave her assistance in the entertainment of the young or the old with equal and cheerful readiness; and sometimes, in the joyousness of a large party, to which she was totally unaccustomed, caught the infection of joyousness, and did heartily what she did dutifully.

This had been the case, that is to say, before Henry’s arrival, and during the first day or two of his stay. After that, although the duty was as rigidly done, there was not much heart in it. For Henry did not thaw towards her. They were together, they met constantly, they sometimes conversed, but there was no approach to intimacy. There was no improvement in the terms of their acquaintance--there was even a going back. She had met him with ease and quietness. Even after the disappointment in his continued coldness, she only became a shade more formal with him. No careless person would have perceived that his presence in any way affected her.

Mrs. Elliott, by intense watching, did indeed make some observations, and they were these: that the presence of Nora affected Henry in a manner exactly contrary to the effect of his presence on her. When Henry was in the room, Nora, without being more really joyous, seemed to be stirred up to greater exertions, was more lively, more conversible.

With Henry it was otherwise. In Nora’s presence he seemed to be like a man moving in chains. He never was quite like his old self; but there were times when she felt tolerably re-assured as to his identity; but these never occurred when Nora was in the room.

Was it the natural consequence only of the old enmity, or did he cherish a secret affection, which her worldly position forbade him to make known? Or was there a misunderstanding between them, which neither had power to overcome? She could not resolve these and other questions.

Mr. Elliott had refused to believe that Henry was changed. But even he was forced to allow that it was so.

“He’s just one of the young men of the day,” he observed discontentedly to his wife, on the evening of Christmas day. “I don’t care a button for him now; he may be off to-morrow if he pleases.”

“Not if I can help it,” she said.

“It is impossible to make the fellow laugh; and what is the row, I should like to know? I hate your languid, _blasé_ young man. I did think Henry had a little of the spirit of our forefathers left. But they are all the same. I hope I may be in my grave before England comes quite to an end.”

“In some ways I think Henry improved,” said his wife.

“In very queer ways, then. I believe he is a bit of a Puritan, if you mean that. From some things I observed, I suspect it.”

“No,” said his wife, laughing, “quite the other way.”

“What! a Papist, then?”

“Something between the two. From what he said this morning, I suspect he likes what we old-fashioned, sober people, can hardly understand.”

“It’s all the same thing--it’s what I mean by a Puritan; a man wrapt in his doctrines, and who does not care to adorn his doctrines by a cheerful Christian temper. _That_ is what is wanted, and Mr. Henry and his Puritanism may take themselves off from my house.”

“I think you wrong him. Henry is certainly very much changed. He was thoughtless, and he is so no longer. But I do not think his religious views are in fault, or have anything to do with his dejection. I cannot understand it; but I will make it out before long, that I am determined.”

But even Mrs. Elliott failed to make out what was the cause of his dejection; although she soon perceived that it had something to do with Nora.

Since Nora had acknowledged to herself her feelings for Henry, she had set herself to conquer them; to conquer, at least, that part which she would not have dared to own; for to conquer her interest in him, her strong cousinly affection, never entered her thoughts.

On the fourth evening after Christmas, the lady who had so great a gift of music made one of the party at Thorneybank. She played as before, and, after concluding one piece, to which all had listened with rapt attention, she turned suddenly to Nora, and said,

“It is near four years, I think, since I met you here. On that occasion you and another person, who is also present, delighted us with a song, artless and simple, indeed, but going straight to the heart. May I request you to delight us again?”

Nora blushed, and glanced at Henry, but, without answering for him, expressed her own readiness to sing.

Henry had been leaning against the wall near the pianoforte. The playing of Miss Romer was of that nature which arrests even the careless; and he was not careless. He was fond of music, and had been standing, wrapt in thought, like the rest. When Nora agreed to the request, every eye turned to him; and Miss Romer and Mrs. Elliott made their earnest request that he would consent to take his part.

“I cannot,” he said. “How can I? I have not sung for years.”

But as few could understand how really disagreeable to him was the petition, a volley of voices implored him only just to try.

To refuse such pertinacious requests is worse than to yield, however unwelcome; and, seeing him hesitate, Nora came to his assistance, chose out an easy song--one of Christy’s Minstrels’--simple but touching, and placed it on the desk.

“I think you could manage this,” she said to him, with a smile of invitation.

He still looked annoyed, but came nearer; repeated that he knew he could not, but would try, as it was wished.

Nora began, and whatever her feelings might be, her voice was under control; its tones, as usual, sweet and clear and steady. Henry followed, and for a line or two he also sang steadily. But just as their voices were uniting with that peculiar sweetness which had lingered on Miss Romer’s memory, he faltered, tried to recover, made a false note, and suddenly broke down.

“I cannot do it--I told you I could not!” he said with passion.

With strange sweet feelings Nora had felt the mingling of their voices; but they had inspired, not overpowered her. Her voice had risen high and clear. When he suddenly paused, however, she paused also.

“It was nothing,” she said softly, looking up as she spoke. “Shall we begin again?”

“No, I cannot,” he cried in the same tone. “I do but spoil and drown your voice.” He then recovered himself, and in an altered and polite manner observed, “If you will be so good as to sing alone, you will cover my retreat.” And he placed a song on the desk, and retreated accordingly.

Nora began at his request, but no longer with inspiration in her tones. She sang the song correctly, but with a heart far away.

Mrs. Elliott followed Henry to a distant seat which he had taken, and said,

“What is the matter with you?”

“Matter with me!” he said with a short laugh. “Is it a very curious thing that a man who has not thought of music for years should not be able to sing a second at sight!”

“Perhaps not. I think, however, you could if you chose. But that is not the question. What is the matter with you? I have been daily longing to ask you.”

“I don’t understand. What _is_ the matter with me?”

“You are so changed--more than you ought to be--so grave--so unlike everything you used to be.”

“I should have thought,” he said, in a sarcastic tone, “that a change in me was a desirable thing. A man at my age, and with my experience, ought not to be an imp of folly--such as I was.”

“Very true; and yet----”

“Oh! Mrs. Elliott, leave a man alone. I do very well as I am.”

Seeing she really annoyed him, she refrained from further questioning. On the night following, Henry, for the first time, sat by Nora at dinner. Mrs. Elliott, satisfied--by her husband’s constant advice--with the opportunity she had given to the supposed lovers to meet in her house, had made no efforts to force them together. As the time passed on, however, and she perceived that, although on friendly terms, there was seldom anything like conversation between them, she for once exerted a little art, and so arranged the party as to make it necessarily fall to Henry’s lot to take charge of his cousin.

But vain even was the hour during which they were, in a certain sense, bound together. A conversation of a fragmentary kind was indeed maintained, but there was the same evident chain on Henry’s spirit, and an increasing quietness and formality on the part of Nora. As he did not thaw, she froze.

Mrs. Elliott gave it up in despair. On the next day but one he was to return to London, and the visit which was to have accomplished so much had proved a failure.