Chapter IX

Two days after the departure of the young Devereux, Monsieur d’Alberg wrote to tell Nora of his approaching marriage. With some pomp he observed that the education of the children being his first duty, he had guided his affections with that idea in his mind, and was happy to say that he had been fortunate enough to find an efficient guardian. He begged that he might have his daughters restored to him in a fortnight’s time; and gave directions, as Henry had done, as to how the journey was to be properly performed.

Nora was in dismay, and in her dismay condescended to supplicate. She accepted the fact of his marrying for his children’s good, and agreed with him that an efficient guardian would be invaluable for them. But she begged him to allow her to keep her sisters until the spring. She told him of the recent departure of her cousins, and dwelt with pathos on the loneliness she would now endure in her large house.

The account, however, that Monsieur d’Alberg had given of his marriage was not quite correct. He had chosen his first wife, and tyrannized over her; but the lady about to be his wife had chosen him, and there was little doubt would tyrannize over him. She was a maiden lady, whose passion was management; and when she saw Monsieur d’Alberg, being at the moment out of employment, she decided on taking charge of him and his four young children.

She was likely to prove a kind step-mother, but she had no pity to spare for Nora. The letter was submitted to her, but what she understood of Nora’s position made her feel envious, not compassionate. She insisted on the immediate return of her step-daughters--for she was married when the letter arrived--and it was with difficulty that Monsieur d’Alberg made her understand that his promise to leave the youngest to the charge of her sister and godmother had been given. Unwilling to deprive Annora of the advantages in store for her, he did manage to hold his ground on this point; but nothing else was conceded, and punctually to the day the little twins left Riddlemere for Geneva.

The strife with her stepfather, and the departure of her sisters, for a time occupied Nora’s mind. But when all excitement had ceased, and she was left alone with one little child, who, pining after her four companions, was sad also, the sensation of loneliness, and of aching longing for a something she did not dare to think of, became almost overpowering.

She had hoped that the connection with her cousins might be closely maintained; she had imagined that it might be maintained through Henry, but in both respects she was disappointed.

The first letter--the account of the journey--came in due course; but it was from Simon, and was as unsatisfactory, as vexing, as a boy’s letter could be.

He began by saying that he wrote because she had desired him to do so; and that, as he wrote, Henry would not. In words evidently dictated, he then went on to say how the journey had been made, how Henry met them at the station; how surprised he was at their size, and “he begs me to say how much he thinks we are improved.”

After this the boy had evidently been left to himself, and a few natural words were added.

“We like London better than we expected. The house is quite a
little thing, but rather jolly. Henry is very good-natured, but
_quite changed_. His hair is cut short, and that is what, I
daresay, makes him look ill.” (Henry in former times had been
somewhat vain of his abundant and glossy hair.) “He says perhaps we
are to live in the country next year. I wish it could have been
near Riddlemere. We never can like anything as well.

“Your affectionate cousin,
“SIMON DEVEREUX.”

The poor boy had seemed to make a little collection of teasing facts, and to throw them out for Nora’s benefit.

After this she heard no more for three weeks. Annabella then wrote to tell her that they had a Mademoiselle to teach them every day; that she was very good-natured; that Henry was not often in London, but when he was, was very good-natured, and had given her a doll with blue eyes.

Nor did future letters add much to her information. They were very rare--Nora could not know that when they came they were by Henry’s order. About once a month he would say, “Have you written lately to Miss Smith, Bella?” and a letter would then be compounded by Mademoiselle and Annabella, which was submitted to Henry, and which, if without a blot, he would pronounce all right. That it contained no information regarding himself he was not likely to observe. Not that the children forgot Nora; but a child’s correspondence is a visionary thing.

Very dreary was the present, and dreary too the look of the future, for there was added at this time the departure of Mrs. Elliott from Thorneybank. In vain dreams Nora had pictured a meeting with Henry there; but Mrs. Elliott had a sister in declining health. It was her only sister; and, in pity for his wife, Mr. Elliott had not only consented to go abroad, but had actually proposed the step. For four or five months Thorneybank was to be shut up.

And yet while, as it seemed, all things tended to prevent a meeting between Nora and Henry, there was a chance meeting in store for her. So little needed as well as useless are oftentimes the worries of blind mortals.

Sophy Brook’s health continued to decline--that is to say, it did not improve, which is said to be the same thing. Nora, whose interest had been greatly excited, and who paid her continued attention, was the first to make this observation. She began to feel that she was destined not to recover; and, with this thought in her head, to meditate on what her duty, with regard to Sophy’s state of religious preparation, ought to be. Hitherto to keep Sophy amused had been with everybody the great object. Some invalids are comfortable invalids. They allow attentions, they invite them, and, receiving them with gratitude, excite those who wait upon them to new efforts. These invalids are blessings, not cares. But Sophy was an uncomfortable invalid. It was hardly possible to please her. If attentions were paid her, she said, “Why was she to be treated as if she was ill?” Yet if, to punish her perverseness, a little neglect was sometimes administered, or if by chance anything was forgotten, her peevishness was a torment to the house.

There is no doubt that an invalid of this class had been a greater blessing to Nora than a comfortable invalid could have been; it occupied her mind as no other could have done. Nevertheless, when she began to observe that Sophy never really improved in health, and to feel convinced that death would come some day when, perhaps, not expected, the faults of Sophy’s temper and disposition began to press upon her mind.

The clergyman of Riddlemere was an elderly man--not old, but elderly. He was a kind-hearted man, sincerely bent on doing his duty, but he was not what would now be called an active man. Had he been born twenty years later he would probably have been so, for he had latent qualities of a useful and valuable kind; but in his early days he had run in a groove--a groove of reading, hearing, thinking, preaching, and a sort of mud had settled over his moral and intellectual frame. He could not bear an excess, and if the poor man was proud of anything (and he was not proud) it was of being a humdrum. “As for me,” he would say, if he ever fell into society whose zeal appeared to him dangerous, “I am a humdrum, and, please God, mean to die so.” And he thought he was saying a good thing; not a witty, but a religious thing.

When Nora came into his parish, he soon perceived that she was an enthusiast, but he shortly found, also, that her enthusiasm was chiefly on benevolence; that, as far as religious knowledge went, she was ignorant; that the strife of parties was as incomprehensible to her mind as the warfare of the Greeks among themselves; and that, so far from wishing to stir him out of that muddy atmosphere he so much loved, she was ready, as humbly and devoutly as his poorest almswoman, to receive instruction from his hands. Such being the case, they got on well together. He gave her good advice--advice really sound and good--whenever she wanted it; and he attended to her wishes regarding the church music, paying to it a greater degree of attention than had been his habit until she came.

But although Nora was, owing to her imperfect and foreign education, little instructed in religious questions, her mind was young and active. The muddy atmosphere was not beloved by her; and, though she entered not upon questions which she did not understand, certain things made an impression on her brain; almost without knowing they were there, she found them there when they were required.

It was thus with regard to Sophy. She felt that she ought to be placed in the hands appointed to watch over her, and yet how to accomplish this without alarming Sophy, she hardly knew. Mr. Lee had often seen her; he sometimes shook hands with her. If she had been able to be at church, he said he had been glad to see her there; if she had not, he said he hoped he should soon see her there; but with this his attentions had rested. Feeling, naturally perhaps, that with Nora and Miss Willis to instruct her, his cares were better bestowed elsewhere, to them he had left her.

After some consideration, it struck Nora that Sophy was approaching an age when the preparation for her confirmation should begin; and when once this thought was admitted, her way was clear. She mentioned the subject to Mr. Lee, and was pleased to find that he entered into her wishes; offering to take all responsibility upon himself, and explain to Sophy why he asked to visit her.

His first visit was dreaded by Nora. Sophy was so strange a being that she felt almost as if striking her death-bell in permitting the agitation it might cause her. But there is no arguing on human characters, especially in their perverse young days. Far from being agitated, Sophy was pleased; far from being alarmed about her health, the mention of her confirmation allayed her fears. She was always more or less uneasy about herself, even when wilfully opposing the rules laid down for her benefit, and the mention of an event which could not take place till the following spring seemed to her like an assurance that for so long at least her life was secure. And if she lived till the spring, why should she die then?

The visits of Mr. Lee were therefore peaceably permitted, and to a certain degree liked. Her mind was lively and intelligent, and any instruction bestowed in a kindly manner was pleasing to her.

Sophy was not a religiously minded child. Though fond of religious tales and hymns, and very scrupulous in regard to saying her prayers morning and night, she had not a reverent mind. She liked to be instructed, but not admonished; and, as far as she was able, drew off the minds of those who visited her from practical to theoretical questions.

Mr. Lee had a quiet homely way of speaking, which, for the most part, went right to the subject on which he was engaged, and with many of his parishioners had been in their illness very effective. But even he was drawn out of his usual track by Sophy. He was unprepared for the intelligence of her mind. It was not what he had expected of Mrs. Brook’s daughter, and he hardly knew what to make of it! Her beauty also, and her winningly capricious ways, affected, and, to a certain degree, bewildered him--so bewildered him as to shake him out of his muddy atmosphere, and lure him to follow her into the questions she put out for his consideration.

It was so, at least, in the beginning of his attendance. After four or five visits he became aware of a defect in his teaching. He observed that, after visiting Sophy, his own mind was busied about the difficulties of the Old Testament, questions of a small Colenso kind, which had already presented themselves to Sophy’s youthful intellect, and with which she occupied him during a great part of his stay.

Mr. Lee shook his head at himself; and on the next occasion, having in his explanations on the Catechism read a part of the Baptismal service, in which a mention is made of Noah’s ark; and, having been arrested by Sophy with a question as to how he imagined the beasts were stowed away in the ark, he was on the alert.

“Never mind the beasts, Sophy,” he replied quaintly. “It will be more to the purpose if we turn our attention to the wild beasts in your heart;” and seeing her smile at this he went on: “We will attack them one by one, and first of all the elephant. There is generally an elephant in every ark. I mean, my dear child, what is your besetting sin?”

At this sudden turn Sophy’s smiles vanished. Her cheeks became of a crimson dye, and in a moment--for Sophy’s tears were always near--large drops fell on her crimson cheeks.

Mr. Lee was much troubled. A character like Sophy’s was new to him, and though a few minutes before he had been anxious to stab, he was now desirous only to soothe.

“Don’t cry, Sophy,” he said, patting her hand, “I never meant to accuse you of any terrible sin. We all have our special temptations; and from things I had seen, and heard, I fancied you had one special temptation. Are you not a little cross and peevish, my child?”

The intense blush faded from Sophy’s cheeks; the tears ceased; the countenance cleared, and she replied, “I am, sir. But indeed I don’t mean to be;” and then, with a little of her peculiar sophistry, “I think it is my illness more than myself that is in fault. I was not cross when I was young.”

Mr. Lee need not be followed into the way in which he dealt with this argument. He spoke well, and Sophy profited. It was remarked by all that she was less cross and petulant. All her energies appeared to be directed to this point, and with success.

On one occasion, when she had borne a disappointment with great good-humour, Nora could not refrain from a kind word of praise.

“I am fighting with my wild beasts, Mr. Lee says,” said Sophy smiling. “We are to attack them one by one; and my temper is my elephant.”

“And have you got a whale?” asked old Mrs. Ratcliffe, who was present, and whose mind was excited by the thought of Sophy’s warfare.

A dark shade fell on the girl’s face, and it was only after a moment that she said, “A whale is not a wild beast, Gran.”

The instructions were continued during the autumn, and Sophy’s health continued not to improve. It was towards the end of November, at a sudden change from mild weather to a searching east wind, that, in spite of every care, Sophy caught a violent cold.