Chapter XXII: Norah’s Revelation

Some days after I had recovered my consciousness, and, thanks to Norah’s care, still retained the feeling of peace with which I had awakened to new life, Mrs. Mordaunt came into the room and said that her nephew, Sir Alfred Rivers, was in the drawing-room. She gave this information to Norah in the most unconcerned manner, from probably knowing nothing of either her nephew’s or of my peculiar feelings, for she had only once seen us together, and it was not likely that Lady Horatia would have expressed any of her fears on my account to Mrs. Mordaunt.

Besides this, the world had for some weeks past proclaimed that I was engaged to the Marquis of Lorrington. I found afterwards that the little Marquis had called incessantly, and had often begged to be allowed to see me, in spite of the infection.

“Sir Alfred is in waiting below,” said Mrs. Mordaunt, speaking to Norah, as if she wished that Norah would go down to see him; and, to my utter surprise, I saw her beautiful face covered with most conscious blushes, and her hand trembled so much that she nearly let a cup of soup fall that she was bringing across the room to me.

“Then you know him,” I said; and I shall never forget the look of hope, mingled with anxiety and joy, with which she regarded me, nor the thrilling tone of her “oh! yes.”

I must have turned pale, for she ran up to me and inquired with anxiety what I felt.

“Nothing,” I said; “really I am quite well; do go down and see him.”

“Does he know I am here, and does he wish to see me?” said Norah, in a trembling voice.

“I did not tell him,” said Mrs. Mordaunt. “I don’t know whether he knew it or not. He came to ask how Miss Vivian was going on, and I thought you might like to see him, as I knew you often met last year.”

“But unless he wishes to see me I would rather not go down.”

“Well, I’ll go and ask him,” said dear, matter-of-fact, and most unconscious Mrs. Mordaunt.

“How very strange that he should never have talked of you!” I said.

“I suppose he did not know we had met,” she said. And there was a slight and most new sadness in her voice, which perplexed me.

“Oh! do go down and see him,” I implored, for I longed to have the strange mystery of Norah’s evident agitation cleared up. When she saw that I really wished it, she went down with Mrs. Mordaunt.

Where could she have known him? And why had he never spoken about her? And why did Lady Horatia never say anything about her to me? The more I thought and asked these questions, the more perplexing it all seemed, and my agitation increased as the minutes, which seemed hours, passed before she returned.

Norah must in some way have divined my feeling, for the clock had only moved ten minutes when I heard her light step hurrying upstairs. She ran towards me, and throwing her arms round my neck, buried her face; but I had caught a sad look on it before she nestled her head on my shoulder.

“You care for him!” I whispered, as I kissed her dear little ear.

“Do you?” she inquired, as she started up, and looked, with a searching, tender gaze, into my eyes. I did not answer for a few moments, during which the experience of a whole life seemed to be centred, and then I said,

“You must have known him before I did, therefore you must answer my question first.”

“He no longer cares for me, if he ever did,” said Norah, while the tears ran down her cheeks, but by some marvellous power her countenance still retained its cheerfulness, mingled with resignation, which was most touching to behold.

“He does--he must! Do go down again and see him. I felt sure there was something which prevented, and oh! what a fool I was not to attend to Lady Horatia’s--to so many warnings!”

“Why, they did not tell you about me, surely?”

“No, most unfortunately they did not. They only said that I was like a moth hovering about a light which would consume me.”

“Then they had a bad opinion of him?” she inquired, with a sudden expression of intense pain.

“I suppose so; but under your influence it would be quite different. I am not good enough to help--to lead anyone right. But is he really gone--gone without any explanation?”

“I suppose so. Yes, I heard the street-door shut as I came into this room, and I am sure he would not remain.”

I then gradually drew from her an avowal of all that had passed. She had first met him two years before, at an aunt’s country-house, where they became very intimate; and she had first been drawn to love him principally from feeling that she had some strange influence over him.

He had been wild at college, although he had taken a high degree, and some of his most intimate friends were of a dangerously profligate kind. He had been early left an orphan, and had no near relations except Mr. Mordaunt, who was not calculated to have any strong influence over him. The great-aunt with whom Norah was staying, being a very unworldly and straightforward character, would allow no engagement to be entered into, “as Norah was only sixteen,” but added, that if both were in the same mind after two years, they were to be allowed to marry; and this plan was also approved of by Norah’s father as well as herself.

In the meantime, it was agreed that nothing should be said about it; so the attachment was kept secret from everyone, except two or three very intimate friends, and among them was Lady Horatia, who took the greatest interest in Norah, as well as in the handsome youth. She was wise enough to discover that Norah was exactly the person possessing the marvellous firmness, tact, and self-control suited to influence Sir Alfred; and she said at the time that, if Norah had been her daughter, she would have consented at once to their marriage.

It seemed that she was right as far as Sir Alfred was concerned, for, in consequence of his disappointment, he fell more fatally under the influence of his false friends, and his extraordinary success in the fastidious London society of that day helped to obliterate the good which his attachment to Norah had called forth.

Lady Horatia had watched him with intense anxiety, and therefore saw with great pain how strongly he had been struck by me. But at first she hoped it was more from the vanity of exciting the admiration of “the new beauty,” as she called me, than from any deeper feeling. But what she dreaded most was my voice. Norah was not accomplished; she did not sing, and music was Sir Alfred’s specialty. The report of our flirtation had never reached Norah’s ears, for she told me, if it had, she would have felt sure that he would be completely fascinated by my peculiarly Italian style of singing.

“Oh! if Lady Horatia had but told me that first night at the Duke of D----’s,” thought I, “that he had been attached to Norah, what years of pain might have been avoided!”

But Lady Horatia, though a quick reader of character, had no deep knowledge of human nature, and, moreover, was inclined to think less well of it than it deserves. She was not religious-minded enough to know the value of real Christian training, and gave credit to it for less influence than it really possesses. Besides, she saw plainly that I was not good, and, therefore, naturally judged that my spirit of contradiction and jealousy would be awakened to acts still more contrary to her wishes, if I thought I could enjoy the additional triumph of supplanting another girl in his affections. She told me afterwards she had been on the point of not cautioning me at all for this very reason about him, and regretted much that she had done so, because she said that it had the reverse effect from that she intended. Moreover, through it all she did not know my deep affection for Norah. And now, to think I had been the means of destroying the happiness of my friend--of the most perfect nature I had ever met with--of the being who called forth all my best and highest feelings!

The fact is, she was the most thoroughly good person I had ever seen; but, strange to say, goodness is not generally deemed attractive, and yet Norah’s attraction was caused by it; and I maintain that real goodness is attractive, nor will it allow people to be dull. The energy it imparts to enable one to bear pain, to be cheerful in the midst of adversity, to love all those around us, and try to amuse or help them, is of itself enlivening and beautiful--vivifyingly beautiful; and is farther removed from anything approaching to dulness than any other condition of being. There was a sparkling, sprightly cheerfulness about her, caused by an ever-abiding expectation of eternal happiness, which was irresistibly cheering.

Even I, who was anything but good when I first saw her, felt that her great charm was that she was immeasurably superior to me in goodness, and that there lay the secret of her influence. She was Scripturally amiable--I mean that she habitually acted and thought on “whatsoever things were lovely,” and that she was a living embodiment of the real charity, or ἀγάπη, which “suffers long and is kind,” and “thinks no ill.” You who have known something of my despair, or believing nothing, fancy you dislike these words--yes, however wicked you may feel inclined to be, you would feel in your inmost heart the positive charm of a character formed on that model--you could not help it. No so-called fast young lady or gentleman, however clever or lovely they may be, could instil the sort of exhilarating cheerfulness Norah always contrived to produce. She would never let you be dull--she would make you feel hope in the future, as well as present enlivenment.

Still, I hear some readers say, virtue is decidedly dull. Wait till you are on your death-bed (but perhaps you fancy that hour will never come!), and see then what portion of your past life appears to you most dull or devoid of real happiness; and you will see that the only bright, and lively, and shining spots are those in which you did your best to follow up the precepts of this much-despised goodness.

In my sixty-sixth year I went to a ball, and all the so-called dandies and fine young men declared that I was the brightest person there. Several told some friends of mine that it made them happy to look at my sprightly and bright countenance; and in the matter of feeling really gay and full of youthful enjoyment, I was in mind the youngest of them all. The endeavour to do right had certainly not made me look dull. But I see every day more and more that virtue is despised, and Revelation ignored. I did not, however, attain the peace I now enjoy till I had suffered many severe trials; and at that time--the period of my visit to Lady Horatia--I was still in a far worse state than I had any idea of at the time.