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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4S03

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At His Gates.

fclBLIOTHEQur;

MRS. OLIPHANT,

Author of "Adam Grakmk," "Thb Laird op Norlaw,"

"Agnes," Etc., Etc.

tORONTO :

y^^^nrpC

HuNTiR, Rose & Compan
1873.

'/f/(^

SfetfvK

W
K ^

.^^ffAx.) r^Ali U-

p¥>^ il

Bntered «c<ordlny to the Aet of %b» Parliament of Oaaadit In the year one thousand
dght hundred and Mventj-tiwo, by Hvhtir, Bon dc Co., in the office of the
Minister of Agriculture.

i;^.

HUNTER, BOSS, h 00.
PRDmRS, TORoirao.

ryo

<i. n'

ii It: r

) M

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER I.

K. and Mrs Bobert Dmimiiond lived in a pretty house
in the Kensington district ; a house the very exter-
nal aspect of which infortkied the passer-by who they
were, or at least what the husband was. The house was
embowered in its little garden ; and in spring, with its lilacs
and laburnums, looked like a ^eat bouquet of bloom— as such;
houses often do. But built out from the house, a^id occupying
a large slice of the garden at the side, waA a long room, ligjtited
with sky windows, and not by any means charming to look at
outside, though the creepers, which had not long been planted,
were beginning to climb upon the walls. It was connected with
the house by a passage which acted as a conservatory, and
was frdl of flowers ; and everything had been done that could
be done to render the new studio as beautiful in aspect as it
was in meaning. But it was new, and had scarcely yet begun,
as its proprietor said, to '* compose" with its surroundings.
Eobert Drummond, accordingly, was a painter, a painter pro-
ducing, in the meantime, pictures of the class cmed aewre;
but intending to be historical, and to take to the highest
school of art as soon as life and fame would permit. He was
a yery good painter ; his subjects were truly " felt "and exquis-
itely manipulated ; but there was no energy of emotion, no ori-
ginality of genius about them. A' great many people admited
them very much ; other painters lingered over them lovingly,^
with that true professional admiration of " good work " which
counteracts the jealousy of trade in every honest mind. Ihey
were very saleable articles, indeed, and had procured a consid-
erable amount of prosperity for the ;gQ\mg painter. It was aU

5475

AT HIS GATES.

most certain tliat he would be made an Associate at the next
vacancy, and an Academician in time. But with all this, he
was well aware that he was no genius, and so was his wifa

The knowledge of this fact acted upon them in very different
ways ; but that its e^ect may be fully understood, the difference
in their characters and traimng reouires to be known. Koberi*
Drummond had never been anything but a pahiter ; attempts
had been made in his youth to fix hmi to business, his father
havine been the senior clerk, much respected and utterly re-
spectable, of a great City house ; and the attempt might have
been successful but that accident had thrown him among ar-
tists, a kind of society very captivating to a young man, espe-
cially when he has a certain command of a pencil He threw
hinuBj^into art accordingly, with all his soul. He was, the
sort of man who would nave thrown himself into anyt&ing
with all his soul ; not for success or reward, but out of an infin-
ite satisfaction in doing good work, and seeing beautifid things
g^w under his hand. He was of a very sanguine mind, a
mind which seldom accepted defeat, but which, with instinc-
tive unconscious wisdom, hesitated to dare the highest flights,
and to put itself in conflict with those final powers which
either vanquish a man or assure his triumph. Perhaps it was
because there was some hidden possibility of wild despair and
downfall in the man's mind, of which only himself was aware,
thftt he was thus cautious of putting his final fortune to the
touch. But the fact was that he pamted his pictures content-
edly, consdentiously, doing everytiiing well, and satisfied with
the perfection of his work as work, though he was not unaware
of the absence from it of any spark of divinity. He did not
say it in so many words, but the sentiment of his mind was
this — " It is good work, work no man need be ashamed of. I
am not a Raphael, alas ! and I cannot help it. What is the

§ood of being unhappy about a thing I cannot mendl I am
oin|; my best: it is honest work^ which I know I don't slight
or do carelessly: and I can give her everything she wants ex-
cept that^ , I|8houl4 b^, too happy myself if she were but
content." But she was not content, and thus his happiness
was brought down to the moderate pitch allowed to mortal
b)iss.
She was very different from her Eobert She had been a young

AT HIS OATEg.

lady of very good connectioiis when she first met the rising
young artist. I do not say that her connections were splendid, or
that she made an absolute misaUiaaice, for that would be untrue.
Her people, however, had been rich people for several genera-
tions. They had begun in merchandise, and by mero^mdise
they had kept themselves up; but to have been rich from the
trme of your sreat-grandfather, with never any downfiEdl or
even break in we w^th, has perhaps more effect on the mind
than that pride which springs from family. Well-descended
people are aware that every family now and then gets into
trouble, and may even fSall into poverty without sacrificing any
of its pretensions. But well-off people have not that source of
enlightenment. When they cease to be very well-off, they lose
the ereat point of eminence on which they have taken their
stand ; and, consequently, success is more absolutely necessary to
them than it is to any other class in the community. Helen
Burton besides was very proud, very ambitious, and possessed of
that not unusual form of amowrpropre which claims distinctiox^
as a right — though she had not anything particular in herself to
justify her clsdm. She had, or believed she had, an utter con-
tempt for that money which was the foundation of her family
pride ; and she was at the same time, too well endowed in mind,
and too generous in temper, to be able to give herself up sincerely
to worship of that rank, which, as their only perpetuid superior,
tantalizes the imagination of the plebeian rich, and thrusts i^^e?f
constantly before them. Helen could Have married the son < >f
a poor lord, and become the Honourable Mrs. Somebody, with
her mother's blessing, had she so willed. But as her will took
a totally different diction, she had defied and alienated her
mother, who was also a woman of high spirit, and only somo
seventeen years older than her only child ; the consequence was
that, when Mrs. Burton found herself abandoned and left alone
in the world, she married too, as truly out of pique as a girl some-
times does when deserted by her lover; and at her death left
ever3rthing she had to her husband and the two small babies,
one of them younger than Helen's little Norah, whom she left
behind. So that a little tragedy, of a kind not much noted by
the world, had woven itself around the beginning . of Her
married life. The mother's second marriage oaA not been a
success, but was Helen to blame for that % Nobody said sho

AT HIS GATES.

WM, no one around her; but sometimes in the silence of the
night, when she alone was awake, and all her household slept
so peacefully . Robert, good Robert was not a success ei-
ther, not such a man as she had hoped. She loved him sin-
cerely, was grateful to him for his love, and for his constant re-
gard to her wishes. But yet, in the depths of her heart— no,
not despised him, the expression is too strong — ^but felt a minute
shade of indignation mingle in her disappointment with him
for not being a great genius. Why was he not a Raphael, a
Titian? She had married him with the full understanding
that he was such ; that he would bring her sweet fame ana
distinction. And why had he not done it? Every time she
looked at his pictures, she found out the want of inspiration
in them. She did not say an3rthing. She was very kind, prais-
ing the pretty bits of detail, the wonderful perfection oJT
painting ; but Robert felt that he would rather have the presi-
dent and all the hanging committee to pass judgment on his
pictures than his wife. Her sense that he had somehow de-
frauded her by not mounting at once to the very heieht of his
profession, seemed to endow her with a power of judgment a
hundred-fold more than was justified by her knowledge of art.
She saw the want of any soul in them at the first glance, from
under her half-closed eyelids— and it seemed to Robert t^at in
her heart she said, " another pretty piece of mediocrity, a thing
to sell, not to live — with no genius, no genius in it." These
were the words Robert seemed to himself to hear, but they
were not the real words which, in her heart, Helen uttered.
These were rather as follow : — " It is just the same as the last.
It is no better, no better. And now everybody says he is at his
best. Oh ! when his worst begins to come, what will become
of us?" But she never said an uncivil word. She praised
what she could, and went her way languidly into the drawins-
room. She had come down out of her sphere to give hersdf
to him, and he had not repaid her as she expected. He had
given her love — ^but not fame. She was Mrs. Drummond only ;
she was not pointed out where she went as the wife of the great
painter . " Her husband is an artist" was all that anybody
ever said.

The eflTect of this upon poor Robert, however, was much
worse even than it was upon his wife« Some time elapsed, it

AT HIS GATES.

IB true, before she discoyered it. It took him eren yean to
make out what it was that shadowed his little household oyer
and diminished its briehtness. But gradually a sense of the
absence of that sympathetic backing-up which a man expects
in his own house, and without which both men and women
who haye work to do are so apt to pine and faint, stole oyer
him like a chill. When anything was said against his pictures
outside, a gloom on his wife's face would show him that worse
was thought within. He had no domestic shield from adyerse
criticism. It was not kept in the outer circle of his mind, but
was allowed to penetrate down to his heart, and enyelope him
in a heayy discouragement. Eyen applause did not exhilarate
him. " She does not think I deserye it," was what he would
say to himself ; and the sense of this criticism which neyer ut-
tered a word weighed upon the poor fellow's soul. It made
his hand unsteady many a day, when his work depended on a
firm touch — and blurred the colours before his eyes, and dulled
his thoughts. Two or three times he made a spasmodic effort
to break through his mediocrity, and then the critics (who were
yery well pleased on the whole with his mediocrity) shook
their heads, and warned him against the sensational But Helen
neither approved nor condemned the change. To her it was
all alike, always second-rate. She did her yery best to applaud,
but she could not brighten up into genuine admiration the
blank composure in her eyes. What could she do 1 There
was something to be said for her, as well as for him. She
could not affect to admire what she felt to be commonplace.
Nature had giyen her a good eye, and intense feeling had
strengthened and corrected it. She saw all the weakness, the
flatness with fatal certainty. What, then, could she say Y But
poor Robert, though he was not a great artist, was the most ten-
der-hearted, amiable, affectionate of men ; and this mode of cri-
ticism stole the yery heart out of him. There is no such want
in the world as that want of backing up. It is the secret of
weakness and failure, just as strong moral support and sympathy
is the yery secret of strength. He stood steady and robust to
the external eye, painting many pictures eyery year, getting
very tolerable prices, keeping his household yery comfortable,
a man still under forty, healthy, cheerful, and yigorous ; but
all the time he was sapped at the foundations. He had .lost

AT HIS GATES.

hii oonfidence in himself, and it was impossible to predict boif
he woaki have borne any sudden blow.

It was about this time that Mr. Reginald Burton, a cousin of
Helen's who had once, it was supposed, desired to be some-
thing nearer to her, found out the house in Kensington, and
began to pay them visits. The circumstances of her marriage
had separated her from her own people. The elder among
them had thought Helen unkind to her mother ; the younger
ones had felt that noUiing had come of it to justify so romantic
a story. So that when Keginald Burton met the pair in society
it was the reopening of an altogether closed chapter of her lifR.
Mr. Burton was a man in the City in very extensive business.
He was chairman of ever so many boards, and his name, at the
head of one company or another, was never out of the newspa-
pers. He had married since his cousin did, and had a vteiy
fine place in the country, and was more well-off still than it
was natural for the Burtons to be. Helen, who had neve^ liked
hipi very much, and had not even been grateful to him for lov-
ing her, received his visits now without enthusiasm ; but Drum-
mond, who was open-hearted like his kind, and who had no
sort of jealousy about " Helen's friends," received him with a
cordiality irhich seemed to his wife much too efiiisive. She
would not accept the invitation which Mrs. Burton sent to pay a
long visit to Dura, their country place ; but she could not be
less than civil to her cousin when he insisted upon calling, nor
could she openly resist when he carried off her husband to City
dinners, or unfolded to him the benefits of this or that new socie-
ty. Drummond had done very well in his profession, notwith-
standing Helen's dissatisfaction with his work ; and also not-
withstanding her dissatisfaction, she was a good housewife,
doine her duty wisely. She had a hundred a year of her own,
which Drummond had taken care to have settled upon herself;
but since they had grown richer he had insisted upon letting
this accumulate as '* a portion for Nor^," and the two had laid
by something besides. For painter-folk it will be readily seen
they were at the very height of comfort — a pretty liouse, one
pretty child, a little reserve of mone^, slowly but pleasantly ac-
cumulating. And money, though it is an ignoble thing, has
so much to do with happiness ! Drummond, who had been quite
content to think that there was a portion saving up for Norah/

AT BtB GATES. 7

ftnd to whom it had not occurred that his little capital could be
made use of, and produce twenty and a hundred-fold, gradually
grew interested, without being aware of it, in the proceeding!
of Mr. Burton. He began to talk, half laughingly, half wiUi
intention, of the wonderful difference between the slowly-earned
gains of labour and those dazzling results of speculation.

" These fellows seem simply to coin money,*' he n^id, half
in jest and whole in earnest ; ** eTerythine ther touch seema

to become gold. It looks incredible and he wound up

with a nervous laugh in which there was some agitation.
Helen had all a woman's conservatism on this point.

** It is incredible, you may be sure," she said. " How can
they invent money t Some one will have to pa^ for it some-
where ; " which was a sentence of profound wisdom, much
deeper than she thought.

" So one would say," said Drummond, still laughing ; but
nobody seems to suffer. By Jove 1 as much as — ^not to say I,
who am one of the rank and ffle — ^but as Welby or Hart-
well Home get for one of their best pictures, your cousin will^
clear in five minutes, without taking the slightest trouble.
When one sees it, one feels hugely tempted " — ^he added, look-
ing at ber. He was one of those men who like to cairy their
people's sympathy with them. He wanted not acquiescence
simply, but approval ; and, notwithstanding* that he was very
weU used to the absence of it, sought it stilL She would not
— could not, perhaps — enter warmly, into the sulnect of his
pictures ; but nere was a new matter. He looked up at her
with a certain longing — ^ready, poor fellow, to plunge into any-
thing if she would but approve.

" I hope you won't let yourself be tempted to anything,
Eobert, that you don't see the end of," she said ; but so gentij
that her husband's heart rose.

" Trust me for that," he said joyously, ''and you shall have
the first fruits, my darling. I have not as fine a house for
you as your cousin can give to hia wife, but for all that **

" For all that," she said, laughing, ** I would not change
with Mrs, Beginald Burton. I am not tempted by the fine
house."

" I have thought how we can make this one a great deal
better," he said, as he stooped to kiss her before he went out.

AT HIS GATES.

m ,

Ke looked back upon her fondly as he left the rocm, and said
to himself tha^ if he wished for gain it was for her sake-rr-his
beautiful Helen I He had painted her furtively over and over
again, though she never would sit to him. A certain shadow
of her was in all his pictures, showing with more or Jiess dis-
tinctness according as ne loved or did not love his temporary
heroine J)ut he knew that when this was pointed out to her
she did not like it. She was anxious that everybody should
knoT^ she did not sit to him. She was very indignan,t at the
idea that a painter's wife might serve her husband as a model.
" Why should a painter's profession, which ought to be one
of the noblest in the world, be obtruded upon the outer world
at every step )" she t;aid. But yet, as he was a painter, every
inch of him, his eye caught the^o^e of her head as she moved, f^id
made a mental note of it. And yet she was not, strictly spew-
ing, a beautiful woman. She was not the lar^e Juno, who is
our present type of beauty ; she was not blazing with colour
— ^red, and white, and golden — like the Eubens-heroines of the
studio ; nor was she of the low-browed, sleepy-eyed, sensuous,
classic type. She was rather colourless, on the contrary. Her
hair was olive-brown which is so harmonious with a, pale com-
plexion ; her eyes hazel-grey ; her colour evanescent, coming and
going, and rarely at any time more than a rose tint ; her very
lips, though beautifully formed were only rose— -not scarlet —
and her figure was slight and deficient in " grand curves."
Her great characteristic was what the French call distinciion ;
a quiUity to which in point of truth she had no claim — ^for
Helen, it must be remembered was no long descended lady.
She was the produce of three generations of money, and a race
which could be called nothing but Philistine ; and from whence
came her high-bred look, her fanciful pride, her unrealisable
ambition it would be difiicult to say.

She went over the house with a little sigh after Robert was
gone, professedly in the ordinary way of a housewife's duty,
but really with reference to his last words. Yes, the house
might be made a great deal better. The drawing-room was a
very pretty one — quite enough for all their wants— but the
dining-room was occupied by Drummoud as his studio, accor-
ding to an arrangement very common among paiuters. This,
it will be perceived, was before the day of the new studio.

f \

AT HIS GAT£S.

The dininff-room was thus occupied, and a smaller room, iticli as
inmost suburban housies is appropriated geuerally to the often
scanty books of the family^ was the eatins-room of the Brum-
monds. It was one of those things whi(£ made Helen's pride
wince — a very petty subject for pride, you will say— but, then
pride is not above petty things; and it wounded her to be
obliged to say apologetically to her cousin—*' The real dining-
room of the house is Mr. Drummond's studio. We content
ourselves with this in the meantime." ** Oh, yes ; I see ; of
course, he must want space and light," Beginald Burton had
replied with patronising complacency, and a recollection of his
own banqueting-hall at Dura. How Helen hated him at that
moment, and how much aggravated she felt with poor Robert
smiling opposite to her, and feeling quite comfortable on the
, subject ! " We painters are troublesome things," he even said,
as if it was a thing to smile at. Helen went and looked in
at the studio on this particular morning, and made a rapid
[calculation how it could be " made better." It would have to
|be improved off the face of the earth, in the first place, as a
studio ; and then carpeted, and tabled, mirrored, and omament-
;d to suit its new destination. It would take a good deal
)f money to do it, but that was not the first consideration.
ihe thing was where was Bobert to go 1 She, for her part,
rould have been reconciled to it easily, could he have made up
lis mind to have a studio apart from the house, and come
lome when his work was done. That would be an advantage

every way. It would secure that in the evening, at least,
profession should be banished. He would have to spend
^he evening as gentlemen usually do, yawning his head off if he
pleased, but not be professional for ever. It would no longer
)e possible for him to put on an old coat, and steal away into
*iat atmosphere of paint, and moon over his effects, as he loved

do now. He liked Helen to go with him, and she did so
fften, and was tried almost beyond her strength by his affection*
|te lingerings over the canvas which, in her soul, she felt
rould never be any better, and his appeals to her to suggest
id to approve. Nothing would teach him not to appeal to
ler : though he devined what she felt, though it had eaten
ito his very life, yet still he would try again. Perhaps this
~ie she might like it better — perhaps—.

AT HIS GATES.

' i

"If he would only have his studio out of doors," Helen re-
flected. She was top sure of him to be checked by the thought
that his heart might perhaps learn to live out of doors too as
well as his pictures, did she succeed in driving them out. No
such doubt ever crossed her mind. He loved her, and nobody
else, she knew. His mind had never admitted another idea but
hers. She was a woman who would have scorned to be jeal-
ous in any circumstance — ^but she had no temptation to be jeal-
ous. He was only a moderate painter. He would never be
as splendid as Titian, with a prmce to pick up his pencil —
which was what Helen's semi-Philistine pride would have prized.
But he loved her so as no man had ever surpassed. She knew
th^t, and was vaguely pleased by it ; yet not as she might have
been had there ever been any doubt about the matter. She
was utterly sure of him, and it did not excite her one way or
another. Bjut his worils had put a little gentle agitation in her
mind. She put down her calculation ou paper when she went
back to the drawing-room after her morning's occupations were
over, and called Norah to her music. Sideboard so much, old
carved oak, to please him, though for herself she thought
it gloomy; cur^ns,, for these luxuries he had not admitted to
spoU his ligLtj a much larger carpet-she made her list with
some pleasure while Norah played her scales. And that was
the day on which the painter's commercial career began.

'!l

AT HIS 0AT£9.

CHAPTER II.

^RUMMOND'S first speculations were very successful, as
is so often the case with the innocent and ignorant
dabbler in commercial gambling. Mr. Burton instruct-
ed him what to do with his little capital, and he did it. He
new nothing about business, and was docile to the point of
srvility to nis disinterested friend, who smiled at his two
^ousand pounds, and regarded it with amused condescension,
.wo thousand pounds ! It meant comfort, ease of mind, moral
rength, to Drummond. It made him feel that in the contin-
gency of a bad year, or a long illness, or any of the perils to
rhich men and artists are liable, he would still be safe, and that
ds wife and child would not suffer ; but to the rich City man it
ras a bagatelle scarcely worth thinking of. When he really conr
3nted to employ his mind about it, he made such use of it as
Btonished and delighted the innocent painter. All that his
iple imagination had ever dreamed seemed likely to be carrie4
It. This was indeed money-making he felt. Trade, spelt with
[very big capital, and meaning something much more splendid
m anything he had hitherto dreamt of. But then he could
^t have borne it by himself or without instruction. Burton
^uld not have been more at a loss in Drummond's studio than
would have felt in his friend's counting-house. Mr. Burton
[as "a merchant/' a vague term which nevertheless satisfied the
iinter's mind. He was understood to be one of the partners in
livers's bank, but his own business was quite independent of that,
mey was the material he dealt in — ^his stock-in-trade. He un-
:;ist(>od the Funds as a doctor understands the patient whose
[ilse he feels every day. He could divine when they were
)ing to rise and when they were going to fall. And there
3re other ways in which his knowledge told still more wonder-
ply. He knew when a new invention, a new manufacture^
going to be popular, by some extraordinary ms^c which
immond could not understand. He would catch a speculation
this sort at its tide and take his profit from it, and bound

AT HIS GATES.

off Again uninjured before the current began to faSL In all
these matters he was knowing beyond most men; and he lent
to his cousin's husband all the benefit of his experience. For
several years Drummond went on adding to his store in a man-
ner so simple and delightful, that his old way of making money,
the mode by which months of labour went to the aoquisition of a
few hundred pounds, looked almost laughable to him. He con-
tinued it because he was fond of his art, and loved her for
herself alone ; but he did it with a sort of banter, smiling at
the folly of it, as an enlightened old lady might look at her
spinninff-wheeL The use of it ? Well, as for that, the new
ways of spinning were better and cheaper; but still not to
the use, but for the pleasure of it ! — So Drummond clung to
his prbfessioo, and worked almost as hard at it as ever. And
in the additional ease of his circumstances, not needing to 1^-
ly anything for an exhibition, or sacrifice any part of Ms design
for the fancy of a buyer, he certainly painted better than usual
and was made an Associate, to the general satisfaction of his
brethren. These were the happy days in which the studio was
built. It was connected with the house, as I have said, by a
conservatory, a warm, dass-covered, fragrant, balpiy place,
br^ht with flowers, "l^ere must always be violets, and there
must always be colour ! " he had said to the nurseryman who
supplied and kept his fainr palace in order, after the fashion
of London. And if ever Hnere was a flowery way contrived
into the thorny haunts of Art it was this. It would perhaps be
rash to say that this was the happy time of Drummond's mar-
ried life, tot they had always been happy, with only that one
drawback of Helen's dissatisfaction with her husband'is work.
They had loved each other always, and their union had been
most true and full. But the efiect of wealth was mollifying,
as it so often is. Prosperity has been railed at much, as dan-
gerous and deadening to the higher bein^ ; but prosperity in-
creases amiability and smooths down asperities as nothing else
can. It did not remove that one un^sclosed and untellable
erievance which prevented Mrs. Drummond's life {torn attain-
ing perfection, but it took away ever so many little points of
irritation which aggravated that. She got, for one thing the
dining-room she wanted^ — a prosaic matter, yet one which
Helen considered important— and she got, what she had not

AT mS GATES.

bargained for, that pretty conservatory, and a bunch of violets
cveiy day — a lover-like dft which pleased her. Things, in
short, went very wdl witii them at this period of their exist-
ence Her discontents were more lulled to sleep than they had
ever been before. She still saw the absence of any divine
meaning in her husband's pictures ; but she saw it with gentler
eyes. The pictures did not seem so entirely his sole standing
ground. If he could not grow absolutely illustrious by that
or an^r personal means of aoquMng fame, he might still
hold his own in the world by other means. Helen si^ed over
her Titian-dream but to a sreat extent she gave it up. Great-
ness was not to be, but comfort, and even luxury were probable;
Her old conditions of life seemed to be coming back to her.
It was not what she had dreamed of; but yet it was better to
have mediocrity with ease and modest riches, and pleasant sur-
rounding than mediocrity without those alleviations. To do
her justice, had her husband been a great unsuccessful genius,
in whom she had thoroughly believed, she would have borne
privation proudly and with a certain triumph. But that not
being so, she returned to her old starting-ground with a sigh
that was not altogether painful, saying to nerself that she must
lleam to be content with what she had, and not long for what
[she could not have.

Thus they were happier, more hopefiil, more at their ease.

|They went more into society, and received more frequent visits

rom their Mends. The new studio made many social pleasures

)ssible that had not been possible. Of itself it. implied a

certain rise in the world. It gave grace and completeness to

their little house. Nobody could say any longer that it was

lalf a house and half a workshop, as Helen, under her breath,

her impatience, had sometimes declared it to be. The

workshop phase was over and the era of self-denial gone — and

ret Robert was not driven from the art he loved, nor prevented

>om putting on his old coat and stealing 'away in the evening!^

visit the mistress who was dearer to him than anything else

^xcept his wife.

This was the state of affairs when the painter one day
bntered Helen's drawing-room in a state of considerable
kxcitement. He was mil of a new scheme, greater than
Anything he had as yet been engaged in. Bivers's bank

AT HIS GATES.

which was half as old as London, which held as high repute as
the Bank of England, which was the favourite depository
of everybody's money, from ministers of state down to
dressmakers, was going to undergo a revolution. The Biverses
themselves had all died out, except, indeed, the head
of the house, who was now Lord Bivers, and had no more
than a nominal connection with the establishment which
had been the means of bringing, him to his present hi^h
estate. The other partners had gradually got mimersed in
other business. Mr. Burton, for instance, confessed frankly
that he had not time to attend to the affairs of the bank,
and the others were in a similar condition : — ^they had come
in as secondaries, and they found themselves principals,
a»nd it was too much for them. They had accordingly deci-
ded to make Rivers's a joint-stock bank. This was the
great news that Drummond brought home to his wife. '^I
will put everything we have into it," he said, in his enthu-
siasm, " unless you object, Helen. We can never have such
another chance. Most speculations have a doubtful element
in them; but this is not at all doubtful There is an
enormous business ready made to our hands, and all the
traditions of success, and the best names in the City to
head oiir list — for of course the old partners hold shares,

and will be made directors of the new company ^And —

you will laugh, Helen, but for you and the child I feel
able to brave anything — ^I am to be a director too."

" You !" cried Helen, with a surprise which had some
mixture of dismay. "But you don't know anything about
business. You can't even "

"Beckon up my own accounts," said the painter placidly
—"quite true; but you see it is a great deal easier to
calculate on a large scale than on a smaU scale. I assure you
I understand the banking system — at least, I shall when I
have given my mind to it. I shouldn't mind even," he said,
laughing, " making an effort to learn the multiplication table.
Norah might teach me. Besides, to speak serious^, it doesn't
matter in the least: there are clerks and a manager to do
all that, and other directors that know all about it, and I
shall learn in time."

** But, then, why be a director at all 1'* said Helen, She ^

AT HIS GATES.

said this more from a woman's natural hesitation at the
thought of change, than from any dislike of the idea; for
she belonged to the race from which directors come by
nature. Poor Drummond could not give any very good
reason why he desired this distinction ; but he looked veiy wise,
and set before her with gravity all the privileges involved.

"It brings something in," he said, "either in the way of
salary, or special profits, or something. Ask your cousin.
I don't pretend to know very much about it. But I assure
you he is very great upon the advantages involved. He
says it will be the making of me. It gives position and
influence and all that-—"

" To a painter !" said Helen : and in her heart she groaned.
Her dream came back like a mist, and wove itself
about her head. What distinction would it have given to
Baphael or to Titian, or even to Gainsborough or Sir
Joshua Reynolds, to be made directors of a bank? She
groaned in her heart, and then she came back to herself,
and caught her husband's eyes looking at her with that
grieved and wondering look, half aware of the disappoint-
ment he had caused her, humbled, sorry, suspicious, yet
almost indignant, the look with which he had sometimes
regarded her from among his pictures in the day when art'
reigned alone over his lue. Helen came abruptly to herself
when she met that glance, and said hurriedly, "It cannot
{change your position much, Robert, in our world."

" No," he said, with a glance of sudden brightness in his

I eyes which she did not understand; "but, my darling, our

world may expand. I shoui I like you to be something

more than a poor painter's witb, Helen — you who might be

a princess ! I should not ha^ c ventured to marry you if I

had not hoped to make you a kind of princess; but you

[don't believe I can; do you I' Here he paused, and, she

[thought, regarded her with a wistful look, asking her to

3ontradict him. But how could she contradict himi It

true. The wife of a pleasant mediocre painter, Asso-

ras

iate, or in time Academician — that was all. Not a thorough

dy of art such as — such as Such as whomi Poor

drea's Lucrezia, who ruined him. That was the only
)ainter*8 wife that occurred to Helen,

AT HIS GATES.

"Dear Robert/' she said earnestly, ** never mind me: so
long as I have you and Norah, I care very little about

frincesses. We are very well and very bappy as we are.
thii^ you should be careful, and consider well before you
make any change."

But by this time the brightness that had been hanging
about hun came back again uke a gleam of shunshine. He
kissed her with a joyous laugh. "You are only a woman,"
he said, ''after all You don't understand what it is to be
a British director. Fancy marchine into the bank with a
lordly stride, and remembering the days when one was
thankful to have a balance of five pounds to one's credit!
You don't see the fun of it, Helen ; and the best of the
whole is that an B.A. on the board of directors will; be an
advantage, Burton says. Why, heaven knows. I suppose
he thinks it will conciliate the profession. We painters,
you see, are known to have so much money floating about !
But, any how, he thinks an RA. "

" But, Robert ! you are not an R. A."

"Not yet. I forgot to tell you," he added, lowering his
voice and putting on a sudden look of gravity, which was
half-r^al, h«df-innocently hypocritical " Old Welby died j
last night."

Then there was a little pause. They were not glad that old
Welby was dead. A serious shade came over bo3i their faces
for the moment — the homage, partly natural, partly conven-
tional, that human nature pays to death. And then they
clasped each other's hands in mutual congratulation. The
vacant place would come to Drummond in the course of
nature. He was known to be the first on the list of Asso-
ciates. Thus he had obtained the highest honours of his
profession, and it was this and not the bank directorship
which had filled him with triumph. His wife's coldni&ss,
however, checked his delight. His profession and the pub-
lic adjudged the honour to him ; but Helen had not adjudged
it. If the prize had been hers to bestow, she would not
have given it to him. This made his heart contract even
in the moment of his triumph. But yet he was triumphant.
To him it was the highest honour in the world.

" Poor old Welby 1" he said^ " He was a great painter j

> \

AV HIS Qkisa.

and now that he is dead, he will be better Understood. He
was fifty before he entered the Academy/' the painter con-
tinued, with half conscious self-glorification. ''He was a
long time making his way." i xr<v,' ,

''And you are more than ten years younger/' said' Helen.
Surely that might have changed her opinion if anything
could. " Robert, are you to be put upon this bank because
you are an R.A. 1"

"And for my business talents generally/' he said, with
a laugh. His spirits were too high to be subdued. He
would not hear reason; nor, indeed, anything except the
confused delightful chatter about his new elevation, in which
the fumes of happiness got vent. He plunged into an
immediate revelation of what he would do in his new capacity.
"It will be odd if one can't make the Hanging Committee
a little more reasonable," he said. " I shidl set my face
against that hideous habit of filling up 'the line' with
dozens of bad pictures because the men have B.A. at their
names. Do you remember, Helen, that year when I was
hung up at the ceiling ) It nearly broke my heart. It was
the year before we were married."

"They were your enemies then," said Helen, with some
visionary remnant of the old indignation which she had
felt about that base outrage before she was Robert Drum-
mond's wife. She had not begun to criticise him then — ^to
weigh his pictures and find them wanting ; and she could
still remember her disgust and hatred of the Hanging Com-
mittee of that year. Now no Hanging Committee could do
any harm. It had changed its opinion and applauded the
painter, but she — had changed her opinion too. Then this
artist-pair did as many such people do. By way of celebra-
ting the occasion they went away to the country, and spent
the rest of the day like a pair of lovers. Little Norah,
who was too small to be carried off on such short notice,
was left at home with her governess, but the father and
mother went away to enjoy the bright summec day, and
each other, and the event which had crowned them with
glory. Even Helen's heart was moved with a certain thrill
of satisfaction when it occurred to her that some one was
pointing her husband out as " Drummond the painter — the
B

: H

! I

AT HIS GAT£S«

new R.A." He had won his blue ribbon, and won it bonestly^
and nobody in England, nobody in the worid was above
him in his own profession. He was an good as a Duke, or
even superior, for a Duke (poor wretch!) cannot help him-
self, whereas a painter achieves his own distinction. Helen
let this new softness steal into her soul. She even felt
that when she looked at the pictures next time they would
have a light in them which she had not yet been able to
perceive. And the bank, though it was so much more im-
portant, sank altogether into the background, while the two
rowed down the river in the summer evening, with a gol-
den cloud of pleasure and glory around them. They had
gone to Richmond, where so many happy people go to
realise their gladness. And were the pair of lovers new
bethrothed, who crossed their path now and then without
seeing them, more blessed than the elder pairl "I wonder
if they will be as happy ten years hence V* Helen said,
smiling at them with that mingling of sweet regret and
superiority with which we gaze at me reflection of a hap-
piness we have had in our day ''Yes," said the painter,
" if she is as sweet to him as my wife has been to me."
What more could a woman want to make her gladi If
Helen had not been very happy in his love, it would have
made her heart sick to think of all her failures towards
him ; but she was very happy ; and happiness is indulgent not
only to its friends, but even to itself.

I— ,-_-...

JLT BIS OATsa

lionesily^
iras above

Duke, or
he^ him-
m. Helen

even felt
hey would
)n able to
I more im-
lle the two
with, a gol-

They had
ople go to
lovers new
en without
"I wonder
lelen said,
regret and
L of a hap-
the painter,
^en to me.
r gladi If
would have

es towards

dulgent not

CHAPTER III.

R. BURTON, however, was soon restored to pre-emi-
nence in the affairs of the Drummonds. Tne very
next day he dined with them, and entered on the
whole question. The glory which the painter had achieved
was his own affair, and consequently its interest was soon ex-
hausted to his friend, who, for his part, had a subject of his
own of which the interest was inexhaustible. Mr. Burton was
very explanatory, in his genial, mercantile way. He made it
clear even to Helen, who was not above the level of ordinary
womankind in her understanding of business. He had no
difficulty in convincing her that Robert Drummond, RA.,
would be an addition to the list of directors ; but it was harder
to make the reasons apparent why " Bivers's " should change
its character. If it was so firmly established, so profitable, and
so popular, why should the partners desire to share their good
fortune with others 'i Mrs. Drummond asked. Her husband
laughed with the confidence of a man who knew all about it,
at the simplicity of such a question, but Mr. Burton, on the
contraiT, took the greatest pains to explain all. He pointed
out to ner all the advantages of " new blood." The bank was
doing well, and making enormous profits ; but still it might do
better with more energetic management. Mr. Burton de-
scribed and deplored pathetically his own over-burdened eru-
dition. Sometimes he was detained in the City while the
guests^ at a state dinner-party awaited him at home. His
carriage had waited for him for two hours together at the
railway, while he was busy in town, toiling over the arrears of
work at Rivers's. " We have a jewel of a manager," he said,
" or we never could get on at all. You know Golden, Drum-
mond! There never was such a fellow for work — and a
head as clear as steel ; never forgets anything ; never lets an
opportunity slip him. But for him, we never could have got
on so long in this way. But every man's strength has its limits.
And w© must have * new blood.'" Thus Helen gradually camQ.

! 1

AT HIS GATES.

to ah understanding of the whole, or at least thoueht she did.
At all events, she understood about the " new blood." Her
own Robert was new blood of the most valuable kind. His
name would be important, for the business of " Rivers's " was
to a considerable extent a private business. And his good
sense and industry would be important too.

" Talk about business talent, * Mr. Burton said; ** business
talent means good sense and prudence. It means the capacity
to see what ought to be done, and the spirit to do it ; and if
you add to this, discretion enough not to go too far, you have
ever3rthing a man of business needs. Of course, all technical
knowledge has to be acquired, but that is easily done. "

" But is Robert so accomplished as all this ? " Helen said,
opening her eyes. She would not, for all England, have dis-
closed to her cousin that Robert, in her eyes was anything
less than perfect. She would not, for her l^e, have had him
know that her husband was not the first of painters and of
men; but yet an exclamation of wonder burst from her. She
was not herself so sure of his clear-sightedness and discretion.
And when Robert laughed with a mixture of vanity and amuse-
ment at the high character imagined for him, Helen flushed
also with something between anger and shame.

" Your own profession is a different thing," she said hastily.
" You have been trained for that. But to be an R.A. does not
make you a man of business — and painting is your profession,
Robert. More will be expected from you now, instead of
less."

" But we are not going to interfere with his time, my dear
Helen," said her cousin cheerfully. " A meeting of directors
once a week or so— a consultation when we meet — his advice,
which we can always come to ask. Bless my soul, we are not
going to sweep up a great painter for our smsdl concern. No,
no ; you may make yourself quite easy. In the meantime
Drummond is not to give us much more than the benefit of his
name."

"And all his money," Helen said to herself as she withdrew
to the drawing-room, where her little Norah awaited her. His
money had increased considerably since this new era in their
lives began. It was something worth having now — something
that would make the little girl an heiress in a humble way. And

I..

AT HIS QXtta.

he was going to risk it all She went into the conservatory in
the twihght and walked up and down and pondered — wonder-
ing if it were wise to do it ; wondering if some new danger were
about to swallow them up. Her reasonings, however, were
wholly founded upon matters quite distinct from the real quefr'
tion. She discussed it with herself, just as her husband
would discuss it with himself, in a way common to women,
and painters, and other unbusiness-like persons, on every
ground but the real one. First, he followed Reginald Burton's
advice in all his speculations, and had gained. Would it be
honourable for him to give up following his advice now, es-
pcially in a matter which he had so much at heart 1 Secondly,
by every means in his power, Reginald Burton took occasion
to throw in her face (Helen's) the glories and splendour of his
wife, and of the home he had given her, and all her high estate.
Helen herself was conscious of having refused these glories
and advantages. She had chosen to be Robert Drummond's
wife, and thrown aside the other ; but still the mention of
Mrs. Burton and her luxuries had a certain stinging and stim-
ulating effect upon her. She scorned, and yet would have been
pleased to emulate that splendour. The account of it put her
out of patience with her own humility, notwithstanding that
she took pride in that humility, and felt it more consistent with
the real dignity of her position than any splendour. And
then, thirdly, the thought would come in that even the
magic title of R.A. had not thrown any celestial light into
Robert's pictures. That very morning she had stood for
half an hour, while he was out, in front of the last, which
still stood on his easel, and tried to reason herself into
love of it. It was a picture which ought to have been
great. It was Francesca and Paolo, in the story, reading to-
gether at the crisis of their fate. The glow and ardour of
suppressed passion had somehow toned down in Drummond's
hands to a gentle light. There was a sunset warmth of colour
about the pair, which!stood in place of that fiercer illumination;
and all the maze of love and madness, all the pasblon and
misery and delight, all the terror of fate involved, and shadow
of the dark, awful world beyond, had sunk into a tender picture
of a pair of lovers, innocent and sweet. Helen had stood before
it with a mixture of discouragement and longing impossible to

M i;

1 1

AT HIS GATES.

put into words. Oh, if slie could but breathe upon it and
breathe in the lacking soul ! Oh, if she could but reflect into
Drummond' s eyes the pasnion of humiliation and impatience
and love which was in her own ! But she could not. As
Helen paced up and down the pretty ornamented space, all
sweet with flowers, which her husband's love had made for her,
this picture rose before her like a ghost He who painted it
was an R.A. It was exquisitely painted — a very miracle
of colour and manipulation. There was not a detail which
could be improved, nor a line which was out of drawing. He
would never do anything better, never, never ! Then why
should he go on trying, proving, over and over, how much he
could, and how much he could not do 1 Better, far better, to
throw it aside for ever, to grow rich, to make himself a n%me
in another way. '

Thus Helen reasoned in the vehemence of her thoughts. She
was calm until she came to this point. She thought she was
very calm, reasonable to the highest pitch, in everything ; and
yet the blood began to boil and course through her veins as she
pursued the subject. Sometimes she walked as far as the door
of the studio, and pausing to look in, saw that picture glimmer-
ing on thk easel, and all the unframed canvases about upon the
WJills. Many of them were sketches of herself, made from
memory, for she never would sit — studies of her in her differ-
ent dresses, in different characters, according as her husband's
fond fancy represented her to himself. She could not see them
for the darkness, but she saw them all in her heart. Was that
all he could do 1 Not glorify her by his greatness, but render
her the feeble homage of this perpetual, ineffectual adoration.

Why was not he like the other painters ; like ^her memory

failed her for an example : of all the great painters she could
think of only Rubens' bacchanalian beauties, and that Lucrezia
would come to her mind. It was about the time of Mr. Brown-
ing's poem, that revelation of Andrea del Sarto, which eluci-
dates the man like a very ray from heaven. She was not very
fond of poetry, nor anything of a critic ; but the poem had
seized upon her, partly because of her intense feeling on the
subject. Sometimes she felt as if she herself was Andrea —
not Robert, for Robert had none of that heart-rending sense
of failure. Was she Lucrezia rather| t^e wife that goaded him

AT HIS GATES.

into misery 1 No, no ! she could not so condemn herself. When
her thoughts reached this point she forsook the studio and the
conservatory, and rushed back to the drawing-room, where
little Norah, with her head pressed close against the window
to take advantags of the last glimmer of light, was reading a
book of fairy tales. Great painters had not wives. Those
others — Leonardo, and Angelo, and the young Urbinese — had
none of them wives. Was that the reason 1 But not to be as *
great as Michael Angelo, not to win the highest honours of art,
would Robert give up his wife and his child. Therefore was
it not best that he should give up being a painter, and become
a commercial man instead, and grow rich ! Helen sat down in
gathering darkness and looked at the three windows glimmer-
ing with their mist of white curtains, and little Nondi curled
up on the carpet, with her white face and her brown curls re-
lieved against the light. Some faint sounds came in, soft as
summer and evening made them, through the long casement,
.which was open, and with it a scent of mignonette, and of the
fresh earth in the flower-beds, refreshed by watering and dew.
Sometimes the voices of her husband and cousin from the adjoin-
ing room would reach her ear ; but where she was all was silent,
nothing to disturb her thoughts. No, he would never do bet-
ter. He had won his crown. Helen was proud and glad that
he had won it ; but in her heart did not consent. He had won
and he had not won. His victory was because he had caught
the banal fancy of the public, and pleased his brethren by his

beautiful work ; but he had failed because — ^because Why

had he failed 1 Because he was not Raphael or Leonardo —
nor even that poor Andrea — ^but only Robert Drummond,
painting his pictures not out of any inspiration within him,
but for money and fame. He had gained these as men who
seek them frankly so often seem to do. But it was better, far
better, that he should make money now, by legitimate means,
without pursuing a profession in which he never could be
great.

These were not like a wife's reasonings ; but they were Hel-
en's, though she was loyal to her husband as ever woman was.
She would have liked so much better to worship his works
and himself, as most women do ; and that would have done
him §ood more t>hm ftnjrthin^ els© w eartJ^ or heaven, But

AT HIS OATES.

she could not. It yfaa her hard fate that made her eye so keen
and so true. It felt like infidelity to him, to come to such a
conclusion in his own house, with his kind voice sounding in
her ear. But so it was ; and she could not make it dififerent, do
what she would. He was so pleased when he found she did
not oppose his desires, so grateful to her, so strongly convinced
that she was yielding her own pleasure to his, that his thanks
were both lavish and tender. When their visitor had left
them, and they were alone, he poured out his gratitude like a
lover. " I know that you are giving in to me," he said, " my
love, my self-forgetting Helen ! It is Tike you. You always have
given up your pleasure to mine. Am I a brute to accept it, and
take my own way?"

" I am not making any sacrifice, Robert. Don't thank me,
please. It is because I think you have judged right, and this
IS best.

" And you think I am so blind and stupid not to see why
you say that," he said in his enthusiasm. " Helen, I often woi;i-
der what providence was thinking of to give you only such a
poor fellow as I am. I wish I was something better for your
sake, something more like you ; but I have not a wish or a hope
in the world, my darling, except for you. If I want to be rich,
Helen, it is only for you. You know that, at least."

" And for Norah," she said, smiling.

" For Norah, but most for Norah's mother, who trusted me
when I was nobody, and gave me herself when I had little
ichance of being either rich or great," said Drummond. He
said it, poor fellow, with a swelling of his heart. His new dig-
nity had for the moment delivered him even from the chill of
his wife's unexpressed indiflference to his work. With a certain
trustful simplicity, which it would have been impossible to call
vanity, he accepted the verdict of his profession — even though
he had doubts himself as to his own eminence, they must know.
He had won the greatness he wanted most, he had acquired a
distinction which could not but vanquish his own doubts and
hers. And as he was now, he would not change positions with
any man in England. He was great, and please God, for
Helen's sake, he would be rich too. He put his arm round his
wife and drew her into the open conservatory. The moon was
up, and shout down upon them, lighting up with a wan aud

AT HIS GATES.

spiritual light the colourless silent flowers. It was curious to
see them, with all their leaves silvered, and all their identity
gone, yet pouring forth their sweet scents silently, no one
noting them. " How sweet it is here," said the painter, draw-
ing a long breath in his happiness. It was a moment that
lived in his mind, and remained with him, as moments do
which are specially happy, detaching themselves from the
common tenour of life with all the more distinctness that they
are so few.

" Tes, it is the place I love best," said Helen, whose
heart was touched too, " because you made it for me,
Robert. The rest is ordinary and comfortable, but this is
different. It is your sonnet to me, like that we were read-
ing of— like Raphael's sonnet and Dante's angel." This she
I said with a little soft enthusiasm, which perhaps went be-
yond the magnitude of the fact. But then she was com-
punctious about her sins towards him; and his fondness,
and the moonlight, and the breath of the flowers, moved
her, and the celestial fumes of Mr. Browning's book of
[poetry had gone to Helen's head, as the other influences
[went to her heart.

"My darling! it will be hard upon me if I don't give
|you better yet," he said. And then with a change in his
[voice — cheerful, yet slightly deprecating, " Come and have
[a look at * Francesca,' " he said.

It was taking an unfair advantage of her ; but she could
[not refuse him at such a moment. He went back to the
[drawing-room for the lamp, and returned canying it, draw-
ling flecks of colour round nim from all the flowers as he
[passed flashing ihe light on them. Helen felt her own
)ortrait look at her reproachfully as she went in with re-
luctant steps following him, wondering what she could say.
Tt made her heart sick to look at his pet picture, in its
)eauty and feebleness; but he approached it lovingly, with
heart full of satisfaction and content. He held up the
famp in his hand, though it was heavy, that the softened
ight might fall just where it ought, and indicated to her
^he very spot where she ought to stand to have the full
Advantage of all its beauties. " 1 don't think there is much
And fault with in the composition," he said, looking at

AT HIS GATES.

t I i

i ! 1

IS!

it fondly. " Give me your honest opinion, Helen. Do you
tliink it would be improved by a little heightening of those
lights r

Helen gazed at it with confused eyes and an aching heart.
It was his diploma picture, the one by which most probably
he would be known best to posterity, and she said to her-
self that he, a painter, ought to know better than she did.
But that reflection did not affect her feelings. Her impulse
was to snatch the lamp from his hand, and say, "Dear
Bobert, dearest husband, come and make money, come and
be a banker, or sweep a crossing, and let Francesca alone
for ever !" But she could not say that. What she did say
faltering was — " You must know so much better than I do,
Robert ; but I think the light is very sweet. It is best i|ot to
be too bright."

"Do you think so?" he said anxiously. "I am not quite
sure. I think it would be more effective with a higher tone
just here ; and this line of drapery is a little stiff— just a little
stiff. Could you hold the lamp for a moment, Helen 1 There !
that is better. Now Paolo's foot is free, and the attitude more
distinct. Follow the line of the chalk and tell me what you
think. That comes better now 1"

"Yes, it is better," said Helen ; and then she paused and
summoned all her courage. " Don't you think," she faltered,
" that Francesca — is — ^almost too innocent and sweet?"

" Too innocent ! " said poor Robert, opening his honest eyes.
" But, dear, you forget ! She was innocent. Why, surely you
are not the one to go in for anjrthing sensational, Helen ! this
is not Francesca in the Inferno, but Francesca in the garden,
before any harm had come near her. I don't like your impas-
sioned women." He had grown a little excited, feeling per-
haps, more in the suggestion than its mere words; but now he
came to a stop, and his voice regained its easy tone. " The whole
thing wants a great deal of working up," he said : all this fore-
ground is very imperfect — it is too like an English garden. I
acknowledge my weakness ; my ideal always smacks of home.

Helen said no more. How could she ? He was ready laugh-
ingly to allow that England came gliding into his pencil and his
thoughts when he meant to paint Italy ; a venial, kindly error.
But candid mi kind s^s he was, he could not bear critivi^m on

AT HIS GATES.

the more vital points. She held th6 lamp for him patiently,
though it strained her arm, and tried to make what small sug-
gestions she could about the foreground; and in her heart, as
she stood trembling with pain and excitement, would have
liked to thrust the flame through that canvas in very love for
the painter. Perhaps some painter's wife who reads this page,
some author's wife, some woman jealous and hungry for excel-
lence ia the productions of those she loves, will understand bet-
ter than I can describe it how Helen felt.

When he had finished those fond scratches of chalk upon the
picture, and had taken the lamp from her hand to relieve her
Drummond was shocked to find his wife so tremulous and pale.
He made her sit down in his great chair, and called himself a
brute for tiring her. "Now let us have a comfortable talk
over the other matter," he said. The lamp, which he had
placed on a table littered with portfolios and pigments, threw a
dim light through the large studio. There were two ghostly
easels standing up tall and dim in the background, and the lay
figure ghostliest of all, draped with a gleaming silvery stuff,
pale green with lines of silver, shone eerily in the distance.
Drummond sat down by his wife, and took her hand in his.

"You are quite chilly," he said tenderly ; " are you ill, Helen 1
If it worries you like this a hundred directorships would not
tempt me. Tell me frankly my darling — do you dislike it so
much as this ' " ^

" I don't dislike it at all," she said eagerly. " I am chilly,
because the night is cold. Listen how the wind is rising!
That sound always makes me miserable. It is like a child cry-
ing, or some one wailing out of doors. It affects my nerves
—5 don't know why."

" It is nothing but the sound of rain," he said " silly

little woman! I wonder why it is that one likes a wo-

' man to be silly now and then ? It restores the balance between

us I suppose; for generally, alas! Helen, you are wiser than I

am, which is a dreadful confession for a man to make."

"No, no, it is not true," she said, with indescribable remorse.
[But he only laughed and put his arm round her, seeing that
[she trembled stm.

" It is quite true ; but I like you to be silly now and then — ^like
to, It gives one a glimmer of superiority. There ! lean upon

AT HIS GATES.

me and feel comfortable. You are only a woman after all.
You want ^our husband's arm to keep you safe."

''What 18 that?" said Helen, with a start. It was a simple
sound enough ; one of the many unframed, unfinished drawings
which covered the wall, had fallen down. Bobert rose and
picked it up, and brought it forward to the light.

** It is nothing," he said ; and then with a laugh, looking at it
added, ^* Absit wnm ! It is my own portrait And very lucky,
too, that it was nothing more important. It is not hurt. Let
us talk about the bank."

" Oh,Ilobert, your portrait !" she said with a sudden unreason-
able terror, clutching at it, and gazing anxiously into the serene
painted face.

** My portrait does not mind it in the least," he said laugh-
ing ; and it might have been yours, Helen. I must have all
those fastenings seen to to-morrow. Now, let us talk about
the bank."

" Oh, Eobert," she said, ** let us have itothing to do with it.
It is an omen, a warning. We are very well as we are. Give
up all these business things which you don't understand. How
can you understand them % Give it up, and let us be as we
are."

** Because a nail has come out of the wall 1 " he said. *' Do
you suppose the nail knew, Helen, or the bit of painted can-
vas 1 Nonsense, dear. I defy all omens for my part."
. And just then the wind rose and gave a wailing cry, like a
spirit in pain. Helen burst into tears which she could not
keep back. No; it was quite true, the picture could not know,
the wind could not know what was to come. And yet

Drummond had never seen his wife suffer from nerves or
fancies, and it half-amused, half-affected him; and went to his
heart. He was even pleased, the simple-minded soul, and flat-
tered by the sense of protection and strength which he felt in
himself He liked nothing better than to caress and soothe her.
He took her back to the drawing-room and placed her on a sofa,
and read the new book of poetry to her which she had taken
such a fancy to. Dear foolishness, womankind ! He liked to
feel her thiis dependent upon his succour and sympathy ; and
smiled to think of any omen that could lie in the howling of a
wind, or the rising of a summer storm*

JLT HIS GATES.

tT is neei
fall of

CHAPTER IV.

needless to say that Helen's superstition about the
~ the picture and the sighing of the wind vanished
with the night, and that in the morning her nervous-
ness was gone, and her mind had returned to its previous
train of thought. Her passing weakness, however, had lefb
one trace behind. While he was soothing her fanciful terrors,
Robert had said, in a burst of candour and magnanimity.
"I will tell you what I will do, Helen. I will not act on
my own judgment. I'll ask Hiddane and Maurice for their
advice." ''But I do not care for their advice," she had
said, with a certain pathos. " Yes, to be sure," Robert had
had answered ; for, good as he was, he liked his own way,
and sometimes was perverse. " They are my oldest friends ;
they are the most sensible fellows I know. I will tell them
all the circumstances, and they will give me their advice."

This was a result which probably would have come whether
Helen had^ been nervous or not ; for Haldane and Maurice
were the two authorities whom the painter held highest after
his wife. But Helen had never been able to receive them
with her husband's faith or to agree to them as sharers of
her influence over him. It said much for her that she had
80 tolerated them and schooled herself in their presence that
poor Drunmiond had no idea of the rebellion which existed
against them in her heart. But both of them were instinct-
ively aware of it, and felt that they were not loved by
their friend's wife. He made the same announcement to
her next morning with cheerful confidence, and a sense
that he deserved nothing but applause for his prudence.

" I am going to keep my promise," he said. " You must
not think I say anything to please you which I don't mean to
carry out. I am going to speak to Haldane and Maurice.
Maurice is very knowing about business, dnd as for Stephen,
his father was in an office all his life."

** But, Robert, I don't want you to ask their advice. I have

AT HIS OATSS.

no fai<ih in them. I would rather a hundred times you judged
for yourself."

**Yes, my darling," said Bobert; ''they are the greatest
helps to a man in making such a decision. I know my
own opinion, and I know yours; and our two good friends,
who have no bias, will put everything right."

And he went out with his hat brushed and a new pair
of eloves, cheerful and respectable as if he were already a
baiuc director, cleansed of the velvet coats and brigand hats
and all the weaknesses of his youth. And his wife sat down
with an impatient sigh to hear Norah play her scales, which
which was not exhilarating, for Norah's notions of time and
harmony were as yet but weakly developed. While the child
made direful havoc among the black notes, Helen was sound-
uig a great many notes quite as black in her inmost mind,
miat could they know about it 1 What were they to him in
comparison with herself? Why should he so wear his hettrt
upon his sleeve 1 It raised a kind of silent exasperation
within her, so good as he was, so kind, and tender, and loving ;
and yet this was a matter in which she had nothmg to do but
submit.

These two cherished friends of Eobert's were not men after
Helen's heart. The first, Stephen Haldane, was a dissenting
minister, a member of a class which all her prejudices were in
arms against. It was not that she cared for his religious opin-
ions or views, which differed from her own. She was not
theological nor ecclesiastical in her turn of mind, and, to tell
the truth, was not given to judging her acquaintances by an
inteUeetual standard, much less a doctrinal one. But she
shrank from his intimacy because he was a dissenter- — a
man belonging to a class not acknowledged in society, and of
whom she understood vaguely that they were very careless
about their h's, and were not gentlemen. The fact that Stephen
Haldane was a gentleman as much as good manners, and good
looks, and a tolerable education could make him, did not
change her sentiments. She was too much of an idealist
(without knowing it) to let proof invalidate theory. Accord-
ingly, she doubted his ^ood manners, mistrusted his opinions,
and behaved towards him with studied civility, and a protest,
carefully veiled but never forgotten, against his admissipu t9

AT HIS GATES.

>8 were in

her society. Be had no right to be there; he was an
intruder, an inferior. Such was her conclusion in a social
point of view ; and her husband's inclination to consult
him on most important matters in their history was very
galling to her. The two had come to know each other in
their youth, when Haldane was going through the curious
incoherent education which often leads a young man tem-
porarily to the position of dissenting minister. He had started
in life as a Bluecoat boy, and had shown what people call
"great talent," but not in the academical way. As a young
man he had loved modem literature better than ancient.
Had he been born to an estate of ten thousand a year, or
had he been bom in a rank which would have secured him
diplomatic or official work, he would have had a high char
racter for accomplishments and ability; but he was bom
only of a poor dissenting family, without a sixpence, and
when his school career was over he did not know what to
do with himself. He took to writing, as such men do, by
nature, and worked his way into the newspapers. Thus he
began to eam a little money, while vaguely playing with a variety
of careers. Once he thought he would be a doctor, and it was
while in attendance at an anatomical class that he met Drum-
mond. But Haldane was soon sick of doctoring. Then he be-
came a lecturer, getting engagements from mechanics? institutions
and literary societies, chiefly in the country. It was at one
of these lectures that he fell under the notice of a certain
Mr. Baldwin, a kind of lay bishop in a great dissenting
community. Mr. Baldwin was much "stiuclr by the young
lecturer. He agreed with his views, and applauded his
eloquence ; and when the lecture was over had himself
introduced to the speaker. This good man had a great many
peculiarities, and was rich enough to be permitted to indulge
them. One of these peculiarities was an inclination to find
out and encourage "rising talent." And he told everybody
he had seldom been so mu^ impressed as by the talents of this
young man, who was living (innocently) by his wits, and did not
know what to do with himself. It is not necessary to describe
the steps by which young Haldane reformed from a lecturer
npon miscellaneous subjects, literary and philosophical, into a
most esteemed preacher. He pursued his studi99 for a yeac or

) '

AT HtS OATBd.

two at Mr. BaldwiD^s cost, and at the end of that time wad
promoted) not of cr«urse nominally, but very really, by Mr.
JSaldvrin's influence, to the pulpit of the flourishing and
wealthy congregation of which that potentate was the head.
This was Stephen Haldane's history ; but he was not the sort
of man to be produced naturally by such a training. He
was full of natural refinement, strangely blended with a
contented adherence to all the homely habits of his early life.
He had not attempted, had not even thought of, " bettering"
himself. He lived with his mother and sister, two homely
dissenting women, narrow as the little house they lived in,
who kept him, his table, and surroundings, on exactly the
same model as his father's house had been kept. All the
luxuries of the wealthy chapel-folks never tempted him to
imitation. He did not even claim to himself the luxury of a
private study in which to write his sermons, but had his writ-
ing-table in the common sitting-room, in order that his woman-
kind might preserve the cold fiction of a " best room" in which
to receive visitors. To be sure, he might have been able to
aflbrd a larger house ; but then Mrs. Haldane and Miss Jane
would have been out of place in a larger house. They lived
in Victoria Villas, one of the smaller streets whicl copy
and vulgarize the better ones in all London suburbs. It
was close to St. Mary's Boad, in which Drummond's house
was situated, and the one set of houses was a copy of the other
in little. The arrangement of rooms, the shape of the
garden, the outside aspect was the same, only so many
degrees smaller. And this, it must be allowed, was one of
the reasons why the Haldanes were unpalatable neighbours
to Mrs. Drummond. For, as a general rule, the people who
lived in St. Mary's Eoad did not know the inferior persons
who inhabited Victoria Villas. The smaller copied the
greater, and were despised by them in consequence. It was
" a different class," everybody said. And it may be supposed
that it was very hard upon poor Helen to have it known
that her husband's closest friend, the man whose opinion he
asked about most things, and whom he believed in entirely,
was one who combined in himself almost all the objectiona-
ble qualities possible. He was a dissenter — a di^enting
minister — sprung of a poor family, and adhering to all their

▲T UIS GATES.

shabby habits, and lived in Victoria Villas. The very
address of itself was enough to condemn a man; no one
who had any respect for his friends would have retained it
for an hour. Yet it was this man whom Robert had gone
to consult at this greatest crisis of his life.

The other friend upon whom poor Drummond relied was
less objectionable in a social point of view. He was a phy-
sician, and not in very great pr&ctice, being a crotch sty man
given to inventions and investigations, but emphatically ''a

fentleman," according to Helen's own sense of the word,
'his was so far satisfactory ; but if he was less objectionable,
he was also much less interesting than Stephen Haldane.
He was a shy man, knowing little about women and caring
less. He Uved all by himself in a great house in one of
the streets near Berkeley Square, a house twice as big as
the Drummond's, which he inhabited in solitary state, in
what seemed to Helen the coldest, dreariest loneliness. She
was half sorry for, half contemptuous of, him in his big,
solemn, doubly-respectable hermitage. He was rich, and hi^
nothing to do with his money. He had few friends and
no relations. He was as unlike the painter as could be
conceived; and yet in him too Robert believed. Their ac-
quaintance dated back to the same anatomical lectures which
had brought Haldane and Drummond together, but Dr.
Maurice was a lover of art, and had bought Robert's first
picture, and thus occupied a different ground with him.
Perhaps the irritating influence he had upon Helen was
greater than that exercised by Haldane, because it was an
irritation produced by his character, not by his circumstan-
ces. Holdam paid her a certain shy homage, feeling her to
be different from all the women that surrounded himself;
but Maurice treated her with formal civility and that kind
of conventional deference which old-fashioned people show
to the wishes and tastes of an inferior, that he may be set
at his ease among them. There were times when she all
but hated the doctor, with his courtesy and his silent air
of criticism, but the minister she could not hate.

At the same time it must be allowed that to see her
husband set out with his new gloves to ask the opinion of
these two men, after all the profound thought she had

»?^mmmemm

AT HIS GATES.

'1:1 1

benelf given to the subject, and the passionate feeling it
had roused within her, was hard upon Helen. To them it
would be nothing more than a wise or unwise investment
of money, but to her it was a measure affecting life and
honour. Perhaps she exaggerated, she was vrilling to allow,
but they would not fail to underrate its importance; they
could not — Heaven forbid they ever should ! — ^feel as she
did, that Robert, though an R.A., had failed in his profess-
ion. They would advise him to hold fast by that profession
and leave business alone, which was as much as condemning
him to a constant repetition of the despairs and discontents
of the past; or they would advise him to accept the new
opening held out to him and sever himself from Art, which
would be as good as a confession of failure. Thus it is
evident, whatever his friends might happen to advise, Helen
was prepared to resent.

At this moment Mrs. Drummond's character was the
strangest mixture of two kinds of being. She was, though
a mature woman, like a flower bursting out of a rough
husk. The old conventional nature, the habits and prejudi-
ces of a rich bourgeois existence to which she had been born
had survived all that had as yet happened to her in life.
The want of a dining-room, which has been already noted,
had been not a trivial accident but a real humiliation to
her. She sighed when she thought of the great dinner-
parties with mountains of silver on table and sideboard,
and many men in black or more gorgeous beings in livery
to wait, which she had been accustomed to in her youth ;
and when she was obliged to furnish a supper for a group
of painters who had been smoking half the night in the studio,
and who were not in evening dress, she felt almost disgraced.
Robert enjoyed that impromptu festivity more than all the din-
ner-parties ; but Helen felt that if any of her old friends or even
the higher class of her present acquaintances were to look in
and see her, seated at the head of the table, where half a dozen
bearded men in morning coats were devouring cold beef and
salad, she must have sunk through the floor in shame and
dismay. Robert was strangely, sadly without feeling in such
matters. It never occurred to him that they could be a crite-
rion of what his wife called " position ;" and he would only

AT HIS QATE&

laugh in the most hearty way when Helen insisted upon the
habits proper to " people of our class." But her pride, such as
it was, was terribly wounded by all such irregular proceedings.
The middle-class custom of dining early and making a meal of
" tea," a custom in full and undisturbed operation round the
comer in Victoria Villas, affected her with a certain horror as
if it had been a crime. Had she yielded to it she would have
felt that she had ''given in," and voluntarily descended in
the social scale. "Late dinners" were to her as a bulwark
against that social downfall which in her early married life
had seemed always imminent. This curious raising up of de-
tails into the place of principles had given Helen many an un-
necessary prick. It had mme her put up with much really
inferior society in the shape of people of gentility whose minds
were all absorbed in the hard struggle to keep up appearances
and live as people live with ten times their income, while it
cut her from a great many to whom appearances were less
important, and who lived as happened to be most convenient
to them, without asking at what hour dukes dined or million-
aires. The dukes probably would have been as indifferent,
but not the millionaires, and it was from the latter class thai
Helen came. But in the midst of all these all-important de«
tails and the trouble they caused her, had risen up, she knew
not how, a passionate, obstinately ideal soul. Perhaps at first
her thirst for fame had been but another word for social ad-
vancement and distinction in the world, but that feeling had
changed by means of the silent anguish which had crept on her,
as bit by bit she understood her husband's real weakness.
Love in her opened, it did not blind her eyes. Her heart cried
out for excellence, for power, for genius in the man she loved ;
and with this longing there came a hundred subtle sentiments
which she did not understand, and which worked and fer-
mented in her without any will of hers. Along with the sense
that he was no genius, there rose an unspeakable remorse and
hatred of herseK who had found it out. And along with her dis-
content came a sense of her own weakness, a growing humility
which was a pain to her, and against which her pride fought
stoutly, keeping, up to this time, the upper hand, and a regret-
ful, self-repT'oacl?|ul, half-adoration of her husband and his
^oodAess, prQ(jtuGed by tl^ yerf consciousness that he was not

AT HIS GATES.

SO strong) nor so great as she had hoped. These mingled ele-
ments of the old and the new in Helen's mind made it hard to
understand her, hard to realise ana follow her motives ; yet
they explained the irritability which possessed her, her impati-
ence of any suggestion from outside, along with her longing for
something new, some change which might bring a new tide
into the life which had fallen into such dreary, stagnant, unreal
ways.

While she waited at home with all these thoughts whirling
about her, Robert went out cheerfully seeking advice. He did
it in the spirit which is habitual to men who consult their
friends on any important matter. He made up his mind
first. As he turned lightly round the comer, swinging his cane,
instead of wondering what his friend would say to him, he
was making up his mind what he himself would do with ftll
the unusual power and wealth which would come to hi\n
through the bank. For instance, at once there was poor
Chance, the sculptor, whose son he could find a place for with-
out more ado. Poor Chance had ten children, and was no
genius, but an honest, good fellow, who would have made quite
a superior stonemason had he underst<ft)d his own gifts. Here
was one immediate advantage of thau bank-directorship. He
went in cheerful and confident in this thought to the
little house in Victoria Villas. Haldane had been ill ; he had
spent the previous winter in Italy, and his friends had been in
some anxiety about his health ; but he had improved again
and Robert went in without any apprehension into the sitting-
room at the back, which looked into the little garden. He
had scarcely opened the door before he saw that something
had happened. The writing-table was deserted, and a large
sofa drawn near the window had become, it was easy to per-
ceive, the centre of the room and of all the interests of its in-
habitants. Mrs. Haldane, a homely old woman in a black dress
and a widow's cap, rose hastily as he came in, with her hand
extended, as if to forbid his approach. She was very pale and
tremulous ; the arm which she raised shook as she held it out,
and fell down feebly by her side when she saw who it was.
" Oh, come in, Mr. Drummond, he will like to see y(m," she
said in a whisper. Robert went forward with a pang of alarm
His friend was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, with aa

AT HIS GATES.

ashy paleness on his face, and the features slightly, veiy slight-
ly distorted. He was not moved by the sound of Robert's
welcome nor by his mother's movements. His eyes were closed,
and yet he did not seem to be asleep. His chest heaved regu-
larly and faintly, or the terrified bystander would have thought
he was dead.

Robert clutched at the hand which the old lady stretched
out to him again. " Has he fainted V he cried in a whisper.
" Have you had the doctor ? Let me go for the doctor. « Do
you know what it is 1"

Poor Mrs. Haldane looked down silently and cried. Two
tears fell out of her old eyes as if they were full and had over-
flowed. " I thought he would notice you," she said. " He
always was so fond of you. Oh, Mr. Drummond, my boy's
had a stroke."

" A stroke ! " said Drummond, under his breath. All his
own visions flitted out of his mind like a shadow. His friend
lay before him like a fallen tower, motionless, speechless.
" Good God ! " he said, as men do unawares, with involuntary
appeal to Him who (surely) has to do with those wild contra-
dictions of nature. "When did it happen? Who has seen
him 1" he asked, growing almost as pale as was the suiferer,
and feeling faint and ill in the sense of his own powerlessness
to help.

" It was last night, late," said the mother. " Oh, Mr. Drum-
mond, this has been what was working on him. I knew it
was never the lungs. Not one of us, either his father's family or
mine, was ever touched in the lungs. Dr. Mixwell saw him
directly. He said not to disturb him, or 1 would have had
him in bed. I know he ought to be in bed."

" I'll go and fetch Maurice," cried Robert. " I shall be back
directly," and he rushed out of the room which he had entered
so jauntily. As he flew along the street, and jumped into the
first cab he could find, the bank and his directorship went as
completely out of his mind as if they had been a hundred years
off". He dashed at the great solemn door of Dr. Maurice's
house when he reached it and rushed in, upsetting the decorous
servant. He seized the doctor by the shoulder, who was seated
calmly at breakfast. " Come along with me directly, he said.
•* I have a cab at the door."

At m^ GATES.

'* What is the matter r said Dr. Maurice. He had no idea
of being disturbed so unceremoniously. "Is Mrs. Drummond
ill 1 Sit down and tell me what is wrong."

" I can't sit down. I want you to come with me. There is
a cab at the door," said Robert panting. " It is poor Haldane.
He has had a fit — come at once. "

" A fit ! I knew that was what it was," said Dr. Matirice
calmly. He waved his hand to the importunate petitioner, and
swallowed the rest of his breakfast in great mouthfuls. " I'm
coming ; hold your tongue, Drummond. I knew the lungs
was all nonsense — of course that is what it was."

" Come then," cried Robert. " Good heavens, come ! don't
l^t him lie there and die."

" He will not die. More's the pity, poor fellow ! " said the
doctor., "I said so from the beginning. John, my hat. Lungs,
nonsense ! He was as sound in the lungs as either you or L"
" For God's sake, come then," said the impatient painter, and he
rushed to the door and pushed the calm physician into his cab.
He had come to consult him about something. Yes, to be sure,
about poor Haldane. Not to consult him — ^to carry him off, to
compel, to drag that other back from the verge of the grave. If
there was anything more in his mind when he started, Drum-
mond had clean forgotten it. He did not remember it again
till two hours later when, having helped to carry poor Haldane
up-stairs, and rushed here and there fbr medicines and con-
veniences, he at last went home, weary with excitement and
sympathetic pain. " I have surely forgotten something," he
said, when he had given an account of all his doings to his
wife. "Good heavens ! I forgot altogether that I went to
ask somebody's advice."

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER V.

•

R. BURTON called next morning to ascertain Drum-
mond's decision, and found that he had been sitting up
half the night with Stephen Haldane, and was wholly
occupied by his friend's illness. The merchant suffered a little
vexation to be visible in his smooth and gonial aspect. He was
a middle-aged man with a bland aspect and full development, not
fat but ample. He wore his whiskers long, and had an air that
waa always jovial and comfortable. The cleanness of the man
was almost aggressive. He impressed upon you the fact that he
not only had his bath every morning, but that his bath
was constructed on the newest principles, with waterpipes
which wandered through all the house. He wore buff waist-
coats and light trousers, and the easiest of overcoats. His
watch-chain was worthy of him, and so were the heavy gold
buttons at his sleeves. He looked and moved and spoke like .
wealth, with a roll in his voice, which is only attainable in
business, and wh'en business goes very well with you. Con-
sequently the shade of vexation which came over him was very
perceptible. He found the Drummonds only at breakfast,
though he had breakfasted two hours before, and this mingled
in his seriousness a certain tone of virtuous reproof.

" My dear fellow, I don't want to disturb you," he said ;
" but how you can make this sort of thing pay I can't tell. I
breakfasted at eight ; but then, to be sure, I am only a City
man, and can't expect my example to be much thought of at the
West End."

" Is this the West End," said Robert, laughing. "But if
you breakfasted at eight, you must want something more by
this tune. Sit down and have some coffee. We are late be-
cause we have been up half the night." And he told his new
visitor the story of poor Stephen and his sudden illness. Mr.
Burton was moderately concerned, for he had married Mr.
Baldwin's only daughter, and was bound to take a certain in-
terest in his father-in-kw's proUg^. He heard the story to an

'*~'*<''*i»»f'i'*mimmms»mmmmmmsxmmimm-

AT BtS OAT£S.

end with admirable patience, and shook his head, and said,
" Poor fellow ! I am very sorry for him/* with due gravity.
But he was soon tired of Stephen's story. He took out lus
watch, and consulted it seriously, muttering something about
his appointments.

" My dear good people," he said, " it may be all very well
for you to spend your time and your emotions on your friends,
but a man of business cannot so indulge himself. I thought I
should have had a definite answer from you, Drummond, yes
or no."

" Yes," said Bobert with professional calmness. " I am
very sorrj'. So I intended myself ; but this business about
poor Haldane put eveiything else out of my head."

" Well " said Mr. Burton, rising and walking to the fire-
place, according to British habit, though there was no fire,
" you know best what you can do. I, for my part, should not
be able to neglect my busiress if my best friend was on his
death-bed. Of course you understand Rivers's is not likely to
go begging for partners. Such an offer is not made to every
one. I am certain that you should accept it for your own sake ;
but if you do not think it of importance, there is not another
word to say."

" My dear fellow," cried Robert, " of course I think it of
importance ; and I know I owe it to your consideration.
Don't think me ungrateful, Dray."

" As for gratitude, that is neither here or there," said the
merchant ; " there is nothing to be grateful about. But we
have a meeting to-day to arrange the preliminaries, and proba-
bly ever3rthing will be settled then. I should have liked to
place your name at once on the list. To leave such things over,
unless you mean simply to abandon them, is a great mistake."

" I am sure I don't see any particular reason why we should
leave it over," Robert said, faltering a little ; and then he look-
ed at his wife. Helen's face was clouded and very pale. She
was watching him with a certain furtive eagerness, but she did
not meet his eye. There was a tremulous pause, which seem-
ed like an hour to both of them, during the passing of which
the air seemed to wrestle and beat about Helen's ears. Her
husband gazed at her, eagerly questioning her : but she could
not raise her eyes — something prevented her, she could not tell

AT BIS OATES.

•«

what ; her eyelids seemed heayy and weighed them down. It
was not weakness or fear or a desire to avoid the responsibili-
ty of immediate action, but a positive physical inability . He
looked at her for, perhaps, a full minute by the clock, and
then he said slowly, '' I see no reason to delay. I think Helen
and I are agreed. This matter put the other out of my head ;
but it is natural you should be impatient. I think I will ac-
cept your kind offer, Burton, without any more delay."

How easy it is to say such words ! The moment they were
spoken, Eobert felt them so simple, so inevitable, and knew
that all along he had meant to say them. But still he was
somewhat excited ; a curious feeling came into his mind, such
as a king may feel when he has crossed his neighbour's frontier
with an invading army. Half a dozen steps were enough to do
it ; but how to get back again ; and what might pass before
the going back ! The thought caught at his breath, and gave
him a tremulous motion through all his frame.

"Very well," said Burton, withdrawing his hands from
under his coat-tails, and drawing a slightly long breath, which
the other in his excitement did not observe. Mr. Burton did
not show any excitement, except that long breath, which, after
all; might have been accidental; no sign or indication of
feeling had been visible in him. It was a great, a very great,
matter to the Drummonds ; but it was a small matter to one
who had been for years a partner in Eivers's. " Very well.
I will submit your name to the directors to-day. I don't
think you need fear that the result will be doubtful. And I
am very glad you have come to such a wise decison. Helen,
when your husband is rich, as I trust he soon will be, I hope
you will fancy a little house at Dura, and be our neighbour.
It would be like old times. I should like it more then I can say."

" I never was fond of Dura," said Helen, with some abrupt-
ness. This reference to his greatness irritated her, as it always
did ; for whatever new-comer might take a little house at
Dura, he was the lord of the place, supreme in the great house,
and master of everything. Such an allusion always stirred up
what was worst in her, and gave to her natural pride a certain
tone of spitefulness and envy, which disgusted and wounded her-
self. But it did not wound her cousin, it pleased him. He
laughed with a suppressed enjoyment and triumph.

I «.,««8,-Sl2»S«J«ytMSB

42'

AT HIS GATES.

" W^,** he said, '' Dora is my home, and a -very happy one,
therefore, of course, I am fond of it. And it has a great many
associations to<>, some of them, perhaps, not so agreeable. But
it is always pleasant to feel, as I do, that everything that has
happened to one has been for the best."

** The conversation has taken a highly edifying tone," said
Robert with some surprise. He saw there was more meant
than met the eye, but he did not know what it was. " We
shall all be thanMng Providence next, as people do chiefly, I
observe, in celebration of the sufferings of others. Well, since
you think I am on the fair way to be rich, perhaps I had bet-
ter thank Providence by anticipation. Must I go with you
to^iayl"

" Not to-day. You will have full intimation when your pre-
sence is wanted. You forget — ^nothing is settled yet," said Mr.
Burton ; " the whole arrangement may come to nothing yet^
for what I know. But I must be going ; remember me to
poor Haldane when he is able to receive good wishes. I hope
he'll soon be better. Some of these days I'll call and see him.
Gk>od morning. Good bye, Drummond. I'm glad you've made
up your mind, Helen. My conviction is; it will turn out the
best day's work you ever did in your life."

" Is he true, I wonder? " Helen said to herself as the two men
left the room, and stood talking in the hall It was the first
time the idea had crossed her mind, and now it took its origin
more from the malicious shaft her cousin had shot at herself
Ihan from any indication of double dealing she had seen in
him. It was against all the traditions of the Burtons to im-
agine that he could be anything but true. They had been
business people as long as they had been anything, and com-
mercial honour had been their god. It went against her to
imagine that " a relation of mine ! " could be other than per-
fect in this particular ; and she sighed, and dismissed t^e idea
from her mind, blaming herself, as she often did now, for ill-
temper and suspiciousness. "It was mean to make that
allusion to the past, but it is meaner of me to doubt him on
that account," she said to herself, with a painful sigh. It was
so hard in her to overcome nature, and subdue those rebellious
feelings that rose in her unawares. " Why should I care 1 "
she thought, ** it is my vanity. I suppose if the man had

AT HIS GATES.

never got over my rejection of him I should have heen pleased.
I should have thought hotter of him ! Such a man as that !
After all, we women must he fools indeed.** This was the
edifying sentiment in her mind when Rohert came hack.

" W3l, Helen, the die is cast," he said, half cheerfiiUy, half
sadly. " However, we come to shore, the ship has set out.
If it were not for poor Stephen I should make to-day a holiday
and take you somewhere. This day ought to he distinguished
from the rest."

"T hope he is true. I wonder if he is true 1" Helen re-
peated to herself, half unconsciously, heneath her hreath.

" Whom ? Your cousin ! ! " said T?.ohert, with quite two
notes of admiration in his tone. " Why, Helen, what a cynic
you are growing. You will suspect me neact."

" Am I a cynic 1" she. said, looking up at him with asuddeti
tear in her eye. " It is hecause I am heginning to he so
wretchedly douhtful about myself"

This admission burst from her, she could not te\\ how. She
had no intention of making it. And she was sorry the mo-
ment the w^ords were said. But as for Eobert, he gazed at
her first in consternation, then laughed, then took her in his
kind arms with those laughing accusations of loVe which are
more sweeter than any eulogy. "Yes," he said, "you are a
very suspicious character altogether, you know so much hartn
of yourself that it is evident you must think badly of others.
What a terrible business for me to have such a wife ! "

Thus ended the episode in their lives which was to colour
them to their very end, and decide everything else. They
had been very solemn about it at the beginning, and had
made up their minds to proceed very warily, and asked every-
body's advice ; but, as so often happens in human affairs, the
decision which was intended to be aone so seriously had been
accomplished in a moment, without consideration, almost with-
out thought. And, being done, it was a weight off the minds
of both. They had no longer this disturbing matter betWfeen
them to be discussed and thought over. Bobert dismissed it
out of simple light-heartedness, and that delightful economy of
sensation which is fortunately so common among the artist
class : " It is done, and all the thinking in the world will not
make any difference. Why should I bother myself about it H "

AT HIS OATEa

li this insopciance something does harm, heaven knows it does
a great deal of good sometimes, and gives the artist power to
work where a man who felt his anxieties more heavily would
fail. Helen had not this happy temper ; but she was a woman,
more occupied with personal feelings than with any fact, how-
ever important. The fact was outside,;^and never, she thought,
could vanquish her — her enemies were "^ within.

Time passed very quietly after this ereat decision. There
was a lull, durine which Stephen Haidane grew better, and
Mrs. Drummond Teamed to feel a certain friendliness and sym-

Eathy forxthe lonely mother and sister, who were flattered by
er inquiries after him. She came even to understand her hus-
band's jokes about Miss Jane, the grim and practical person
who ruled the little house in Victoria Villas — whom she some-
times laughed at, but whom little Norah took a violent fancy
for, which mollified her mother. And then, in the matter o^
Rivers's bank, there began to rise a certain agreeable excite-
ment and importance in their life. ''Drummond among the
list of bank' directors ! Drummond I What does it mean 1 "
This question ran through all the studios, and came back in
amusing colours to the two who knew all about it. "His wife
belongs to that sort of people, and has hosts of business con-
nections," said one. '' The fellow is rich," said another :
** don't you ^now what a favourite he is with all the dealers,
and has been for ever so long ?" "His wife has money," was
the judgment of a third, '' take my word for it, that is the
way to get on in this world. A rich wife keeps you going till
you've made a hit — if you are ever going to make a hit — and
helps yQU on." " It is all that cousin of hers," another would
say, "that fellow Burton whom one meets there. He bought
my last picture, so I have reason to know, and has a palace in
the country, like the rest of those City fellows." " What luck
some men have !" sighed the oldest of all. " I am older than
Drummond, but nonp of these good things ever came my way."
iAnd'this mail wa^ ^bje^terp^^ipter than Drummond, and knew
it, but sqi^ehpw I ^ad never caught the tide. Drummond's
importance rose witn ^very new report. When he secured that
clerkship for Bob Chance, Chance the sculptor's son, he made
one family happy, and roused a certain excitement in many
others ; for poor artists, like poor clergymen and other needy

AT HIS GATES.

persons, insist upon having large families. Two or ttaee of the
men who were Kobert's contemporaries, who had studied with
him in the schools, or had guided his early labours, went
to see him — while others wrote — describing promising boys
who would soon be ready for business, and for whom they
would gladly secure something less precarious then the life of
art. Three applications were from the second class of artists,
the men who are never very successfol, yet who " keep on,"
as they themselves would say, rambling from exhibition to
exhibition, painting as well as a man can be taught to paint
who has no natural impulse, or turning out in conscientious
marble fair limbs of nymphs that ought, as the only reason for
their being, to have sprung ethereal from the stone. And
these poor painters and sculptors were often so good, kindly,
and unblameable as men ; fond of their families, ready to do
anything to push on the sons and daughters who showed
" talent," or had any means offered of bettering themselves.
How gladly Eobert would have given awayfa dozen clerkships !
how happy it would have made him to scatter upon them all
some share of his prosperity ! but he could not do this, and it
was the first disagreable accompaniment of his new position.
He had other applications, however of a difTerent kind. Those
in the profession who had some money to invest came and ask-
ed for his advice, feeling that they could have confidence in
him. ''Bivers's has a name like the Bank of England," they
said; and he had the privilege of some preference shares to
allot to them. All this advanced him in his own opinion, in
his wife's, in that of all the world. He was no longer a man
subject to utter demolition at the hands of an ill natured critic ;
but a man endowed with large powers in addition to his genius,
whom nobody coul^ demolish or eveh seriously harm.

Perhaps, however, the greatest height of Drummond's
triumph was reached when, the year having crept around from
summer to autumn, his friend Dr. Maurice came to call one
evening after a visit to Haldane. It was thajb moment between
the two lights which is dear to all busy people. The first fire
of the year was lit in Helen's drawing room, which of itself
was a little family event. Bobert had stayed in from the
studio in his painting coat, which he concealed by sitting in
the shade by the side of the chimney. The autumn eyenioga

▲T HIS GATES.

bad been growing wistful and eerie for some time back, tbe
days shortening, yet the season still too mild for fires — so that
the warm interior, all lit by the kindly, fitful flame, was a
novelty and a pleasure. The central figure in the picture was
Norah, in a thick white piqu^ frock, with her brown hair fall-
ing on her shoulders, reading by the firelight. The little
white figure rose from the warm carpet into the rosy firelight,
herself less vividly tinted, a curious little abstract thing, the
centre of the life around her, yet taking no note of it She
had shielded her cheeks with one of her hands, and was bending
her brows over the open book, trying to shade the light which
flickered and danced and made the words dance too before her.
The book was too big for her, filling her lap and one crimsoned
arm which held its least heavy side. The new-comer saw nothing
but Norah against the light as he came in. He stopped in
reality because he was fond of Norah, with a disapproving
word.

"At it again!" he said. "That child will ruin her eye-
sight and her complexion, and I don't know what besides."

"Never fear," said Drummond, with a laugh, out of the
corner, revealing himself, and Helen rose from the other
side. She had been invisible too in a shady corner. A certain
curious sensation came over the man who was older, richer,
and felt himself wiser, than the painter. All this Drummond
had for his share, though he had not done much to deserve
it, whereas in the big library near Berkeley Square there
was no fire, no child pushing a round shoulder out of her
frock, and roasting her cheeks, no gracious woman rising
softly out of the shadows. Of course. Dr. Maurice might
have been married too, and had not chosen; but never^ie-
less it was hard to keep from a momentary envy of the
painter who could come home to enjoy himself between the
lights, and for whom every night a new pose arranged itself
of that child reading before the fire. Dr. Maurice was a
determined old bachelor, and thought more of the child
than of the wife.

" Haldane is better to-day," he said, seating himself behind
Norah, who looked up dreamily, with hungry eyes possessed
by the tale, to greet him at her m^pther's bidding.
"^Tearly as well as he will ever be. We must am,us^ hioi

AT HIS GATES. if

with hopes of restoratioD, I suppose ; but he will never
budge out of the house SpS long as he lives."

"But he will live 1" said Robert.

"Yes, if you can call it living. Fancy, Drummondl a
man about your own age, a year or two younger than I
am — a man fond of wandering, fond of movement, and yet
shut up in that dreary prison — for life."

A silence fell upon them all as he spoke. They were
too much awed to make any response, the solemnity being
beyond words. Norah woke up at the pause. Their voices
did not disturb her ; but the silence did.

" Who is to be in the dreary prison 1" she said, looking
round upon them with her big brown wondering eyes.

" Hush ! Poor Mr. Haldane, dear," said the mother,
under her breath.

Then Norah burst into a great cry. " Oh, who has done
it — who has done it ? It is a shame — ^it is a sin ! He is so
good !"

" My child," said the doctor, with something like a sob,
" It is Grod who has done it. If it had been a man, we
would have throttled him before he touched poor Stephen.
Now, heaven help us i What can we do Y I suppose it is
God."

"Maurice, don't speak so before the child," said Bobert
from a corner.

" How can I help it ?" he cried. " If it was a man's
doing, what could we say bad enough 1 Norah, little one,
you don't know what I mean. Go back to your book."

" Norah, go up-stairs and get dressed for dinner," said
Helen. "But you cannot, you must not be right, doctor.
Oh, say you are sometimes deceived? Things happen that
you don't reckon on. It is not for his life 1"

Dr. Maurice shook his head. He looked after Norah
regretfully as she went out of the room with the big
book clasped in her arms.

"You might have let the child stay," he said reproach-
fully. " There was nothing that could have disturbed her
in what I said.

And then for a moment or vwo the sound of the fire
flickering its light about, making sudden leaps and sudden

"^M^^^^SN^WSaH^W^s^^P^S®

AT HIS GATES.

downfalls like a living thing, was the only sound heard ;
and it was with this pensive silence, weighted and subdued
by the neighbourhood of suffering, that the visitor suddenly
introduced a subject so different. He said abruptly —

" I have to congratulate you on becoming a great man,
Drummond. I don't know how you have done it. But
this bank, I suppose, will make your fortune. I want to
venture a little in it on my own account.?

" You, Maurice ? My dear fellow !" said Eobert, getting
up with sudden enthusiasm, and seizing his friend by both
his hands, " you going in for Rivers's ! I never was so
glad in my life !"

" You need not be so violent," said the doctor. " Have I
said anything very clever, Mrs. Drummond ? I am going
in for Rivers's, because it seems such a capital investment.
I can't expect, of course, to get put on the board of direc-
tors, or to sit at the receipt of custom, like such a great
man as you are. Don't shake my hands off, my good fellow.
What is there wonderful in this V*

" Nothing wonderful," said Robert ; " but the best joke I
ever heard in my life. Fancy, Helen, how I was going
to him humbly, hat in hand, to ask his advice, thinking
perhaps he would put his veto on it, and prevent me from
making my fortune. And now he is a shareholder like the
rest. You may not see it; but it is the best joke. You
must stay to dinner, old fellow, and we will talk business
all the evening. Helen, we cannot let him go to-night."

And Helen smiled too as she repeated her husband's
invitation. Robert had been wiser than his friends, though
he had asked nobody's advice but hers. It was a salve
to her often-wounded pride. The doctor did not like
it half so much. His friend had stolen a march upon him,
reversed their usual positions, gone first, and left the other
to follow. But he stayed to dinner, however, all the same, and
pared apples for Norah, and talked over Rivers's afterwards over
his wine. But when he left the door to go home, he shrugged
his shoulders with a half-.satisfied prophecy. " He will never
paint another good picture," Maurice said, with a certain
tone of friendly vengeance. " When wealth comes in, good-bye
to art,"

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER VI.

.T was on an October day, mellow and bright, when
Robert Drummond, with a smile on his face, and a heavy
heart in his breast, reached the house in Victoria
Villas, to superintend poor Stephen's return to the sittings
room, as he had superintended his removal to his bed. The
sitting-room was larger, airier and less isolated, than the
mournful chamber up-stairs, in which he had spent half the
summer. It was a heartrending office, and yet it was
one from which his friend could not shrink. Before he
went up-stairs the painter paused, and took hold of Miss
Jane's hand, and wept, as people say, " like a child ;" but a
child's hot thunder shower of easily-dried tears are little
like those few heavy drops that come to the eyes of older
people, concentrating in themselves so much that words
could not express. Miss Jane, for her part, did not weep.
Her gray countenance, which was grayer than ever, was for
a moment convulsed, and then she pushed her brother's
friend away. " Don't you see I daren't cry 1" she said,
almost angrily, with one hard sob. Her brother Stephen
was the one object of her life. All the romance of which
she was capable, and a devotion deeper than that of twenty
lovers, was in her worship of him. And this was what it
was coming to ! She hurried into the room which she had
been preparing for him, which was henceforward to be his
dwelling day and night, and shut the door upon the too
sympathetic face. As for Robert, he went into his friend's
little chamber with cheery salutations : " Well, old fellow, so
you are coming back to the world," he said ! Poor Haldane was
seated in his dressing-gown in an easy chair. To look at
him, no chance spectator would have known that he was as
incapable of moving out of it as if he had been bound with
iron, and everybody about him had been loud in their
congratulations on the progress he was making. They thought
they deceived him, as people so often think who flatter thQ
9

^^^raffllflSfWiPP!

AT HIS GATES.

incurable with hopes of recovery. He smiled as Robert
spoke, and shook his head.

" I am changing my prison/' he said ; ** nothing more.
I know that as well as the wisest of you, Drummond. You
kind, dear souls, do you think those cheery looks you have
made such work to keep up, deceive me ]"

" What cheery looks ? I am as sulky as a bear," said
Robert. "And as for your prison, Maurice doesn't think so.
You heard what he said 1"

" Maurice doesn't say so," said poor Haldane. " But never
mind, it can't last for ever ; and we need not be doleful for
that."

The painter groaned within himself as they moved the help-
less man down-stairs. " It will last for ever," he thought. He
was so full of life and consolation himself that he could not
realize the end which his friend was thinking of— the "for
ever" which would release him and every prisoner. When
they carried the invalid into the room below he gave a wistful
look round him. For life — that was what he was thinking.
He looked at the poor walls aad commonplace surroundings,
and a sigh burst from his lips. But he said immediately, to
obliterate the impression of the sigh : " What a cheerful room
it is, and the sun shining ! I could not have had a more hope-
ful day for my first coming down-stairs."

And then they all looked at each other, heart-struck by what
seemed to them the success of their deception. Old Mrs. Hal-
dane fell into a sudden outburst of weeping : " Oh, my poor
boy, my poor boy !" she said ; and again a quick convulsion
passed over Miss Jane's face. Even Dr. Maurice, the arch-de-
ceiver, felt his voice choked in his throat. They did not know
that their patient was smiling at them and their transparent
devices, in the sadness and patience of his heart. The room
had been altered in many particulars for his reception, and
fitted with contrivances, every one oi which contradicted the
promises of restoration which were held out to him. He
had known it was so, but yet the sight of all the provis-
ions made for his captivity gave him a new pang; He
could have cried out, too, to earth and heaven. But what
would have been the good 1 At the end all must submit.

" Now that you are comfortable, Stephen," said his sister,

AT HIS GATES.

witH a harsh rattle in her voice, which made her appear
less amiable than ever, and in reality came out of the deep
anguish of her heartr " there is some one waiting to . see
you. The chapel pej^le have been very kind. Besides the
deputation that came with the purse for you, there are
always private members asking how you are, and if they
can see you, and how they miss you, till you are able to
go back."

" That will be never, Jane."

" How do you know 1 How can any one tell ? It is im-
pious to limit God's mercies," cried Miss Jane, harshly ;
then, suddenly calming down, ''It is Mr. Baldwin's son-in-
law who has called to-day. They are m the country, and
this Mr. Burton has come to carry them news of you. May
he come in f

" That is your cousin — your director 1" said the invalid
with some eagerness. ''I should like to see him. I want
you to invest my money for me, Drummond. There is not
much; but you must have it, and make something of it,
in your new bank."

Mr. Burton came in before Drummond could answei.
He came in on tiptoe, with an amount of caution which
exasperated all the bystanders, who loved Stephen. He
looked stronger, richer, more prosperous than ever as he
sat down, sympathetically, close to Stephen's chair. There
he sat and tsdked, as it were, smoothing the sick man
down. "We must have patience," he said soothingly.
"After such an illness it will take so long to get up your
strength. The sea-side would have been the best thing,
but, unfortunately, it is a little late. I am so glad to hear
your people are showing you how much they prize such a
man as you among them; and I hope, with one thing and
another — ^the pension, and so forth — you will be very com-
fortable. I would not venture to ask such a question, if it
were not for Mr. Baldwin. He takes so much interest iu
all your concerns."

"I am very glad you have spoken of it," said Haldane,
"for I want to invest what little money I have in this
bank I hear so much of — ^yours and Drummond's. I feel so
much like a dying man."

AT HIS GATES.

No, no," said, Mr. Burton, in a deprecating tone, "nothing
half so bad. Providence, you may be sure, has something
different in store for you. We must not think of th^t."

"At all events, I want to make the best of the money,
for my mother and sister," said Stephen. And then he
entered into business, telling them what he had, and how
it was invested. His mind had been veiy full of this sub-
ject for some time past. The money was not much, but if
he died, it would be all his mother and sister would have
to depend upon, and the purse which his congregation had
collected for him would increase his little, very little capital. Dr.
Maurice had gone away, and the two women, though they
heard everything, were withdrawn together into a comer.
Mrs. Haldane had attempted several times to interrupt
the conversation. " What do we care for money !" she had
said^ with tears in her eyes. "Let him alone, mother, it
will make him happier," Miss Jane had said, in the voice
that was so harsh with restrained emotion. And Stephen,
with his two visitors beside him, and a flush upon his wan
face, expounded all his affairs, and put his fortune into their
hands. " Between you, you will keep my poor little nest egg
warm," he said, smiling upon them. His illness had re-
fined his face, and gave him a certain pathetic dignity, and
there was something that affected both in this appeal.

"I will sit on it myself sooner than let it cool," Drum-
mond had said with a laugh, yet with the tears in his
eyes, with an attempt to lighten the seriousness of the
moment. " Dear old fellow, don't be afraid. Your sacred
money will bring a blessing on the rest."

"That is all very pretty and poetical," said Mr. Burton,
with a curious shade passing over his face ; " but if Haldane
has the slightest doubt on the subject, he should not make
the venture. Of course we are all prepared in the way of
business to win ct to lose. If we lose, we must bear it as
well as we can. Of course, I think the investment as safe
as the Bank of England, but at the same time, Drummond,
it would be a very different thing to you or me from what
it would be to him."

"Vexy different," said Drummond; but the mere sugges-
tion of loss had made him pale. "These are uneomfort'

AT HIS GATES.

ble words," he went on with a momentary laugh. " For
my part, I go in to win, without allowing the possibility of
loss. Loss ! Why I have been doing a great deal in ways
less sure than Bivers's and I have not lost a penny yet,
thanks to you."

" I am not infallible," said Burton. " Of course, in every-
thing there is a risk. I cannot make myself responsible.
If Haldane has the least doubt or hesitation "

"If I had, your caution would have reassured me," said
the invalid. "People who feel their responsibility so much
don't throw away their neighbour's money. It is all my
mother has, and all I have. When you are tempted to
speculate, think what a helpless set of people are involved —
and no doubt there will be many more just as he^less. I
think perhaps it would exercise a good influence on mer-
cantile men," he added, with perhaps a reminiscence of his
profession, " ;f ^'^ey knew something personally of the peo-
ple whose lives : ; > to speak, in their hands."

" Haldane," tu: I Mr. Burton hastily, "I don't think we
ought to take your money. It is too great a risk. Trade
has no heart and no bowels. We can't work in this way,
you know, it would paralyse any man. Money is money,
and has to be dealt with on business principles. God bless
me ! If I were to reflect about the people whose lives,
&c., I could never do anything. We can't afford to take
anything but the market into account."

"I don't see that," said the painter, who knew as much
about business as Mr. Burton's umbrella. "I agree with
Haldane. We should be less ready to gamble and run fool-
ish risks, if we remembered always what trusts we have in
our hands ; the honour of honest men, and the happiness of
families."

He was still a little pale, and spoke with a certain emotion,
having suddenly realised, with a mixture of nervous
boldness and terror, the other side of the question. Mr.
Burton turned away with a shrug of his shoulders.

" It suits you two to talk sentiment instead of business,"
he said, "but that is not in my line. So long as my own
credit is concerned, I find that a much greater stimulant
than anybody else's. Self-interest is the root of everything

«»,»*»i((fcsi;'-^;»!

AT HIS GATES.

■^in business; and if you succeed for yourself, which of
course is your first motive, you succeed for your neighbours m
well. I don't take credit for any fine sentiments. That is
my commercial creed. Number one includes all the other
numbers, and the best a man can do for his friends is to take
care of himself."

He got up with a slight show of impatience as he spoke.
His face was overcast, and he had the half-contemptuous air
which a practical man naturally assumes when he listens to
an3rthing high-flown. He, for his part, professed to be nothing
but a man of business, and had confidence enough in his
friends' knowledge of him to be able to express the most
truculent sentiments. So, at least, Haldane thought, who smiled
at this transparent cynicism. "I suppose, then, we are
justified in thinking anything that is bad of you, and ought
not to trust you with an3rthing," he said.

" If you trust anything to me personally, of course I shall
take care of it " answered the merchant. " But what we were
talking of was Rivers's — ^business, not personal friendship.
And business cannot afibrd such risks. You must examine into
it, and judge of its claims for yourself. Come, let us dismiss
the subject. I will tell Mr. Baldwin I found you looking a
great deal better than I hoped."

" But I don't want to dismiss the subject," said Haldane.
'' I am satisfied. I am anxious "

" Think it over once more, at least,'' said the other hastily ;
and he went away with but scant leave-taking. Mrs.
Haldane, who was a wise woman, and, without knowing it,
a physiognomist, shook her head.

" That man means what he says," she said with some em-
phasis. " He is telling you his real principles. If I were
you, Stephen, I would take him at his word."

" My dear mother, he is one of the men who take pleasure
in putting the worst face on human nature, and attributing
ever3rthing to selfish motives," said the sick man. ^* 1 very
seldom believe those who they put such sentiments so boldly
forth."

" But I do," said his mother, shaking her head with that
obstinate conviction which takes up its position at once and
defies all reason. Her son made no answw. He leaned back

AT HIS GATES.

in his chair and closed his eyes. The momentary eiEcitement
was over, the friends gone, and the new and terrible life set-
tled down upon him. He did not say a word to indicate what
was passing through his mind, but he thought of the ship
which drifi^ between the sun-set and the mariner, and the night-
mare Life-in-Death casting her dice with the less appamng
skeleton. It was she who had won.

In the meantime the two directors of Kivers's bank walked
out together ; one of them recovering all his self-confidence the
moment he left the house, the other possessed by a certain
tremulous excitement. The idea of risk was new to the painter.
He felt a certain half-delightful, half-alarming agitation when
he made his first ventures, but that had soon yielded to 'his
absolute confidence in the man who now, with his own lips, had
named the fatal word. Robert's imagination, the temperament
of the artist, which is so often fantastically moved by trifles,
while strong to resist the presence of fact and certainty, had
sustained a shock. He did not say anything while they walked
up the road under the faded autumnal leaves which kept
dropping through the still air upon their heads. In this inter-
val he had gone over within himself all the solid guarantees, ajfi
the prestige, all the infallibility (for had it not attained that
point 1) of Bivers's. Sure as the Bank of England ! Sucl^
were the words that rose continually to everybody's lips on
hearing of it. Bobert propped himself up as he went along
with one support and another, till he felt ashamed that he could
be capable of entertaining a shadow of doubt. But the impres-
sion made upon his nerves was not to be overcome by simple
self-argument. Time was wanted to calm it down. He felt a
certain thrill and jar communicated through all the lines of
life. The sensation ran to his very finger-points, and gave
a sharp electric shock about the roots of his hair. And
it set his heart and his pulse beating, more likely organs
to be affected. Loss ! That was to say Helen and the child
deprived of the surroundings that made their life so fair ;
driven back to the poor little lodgings, perhaps, in which his
career began or to something poorer stUL Perhaps to want, per-
haps to "What a fool I am !" he said to himself.

" Do you reaUy object to Haldane as one of our share-
holders }" he said, with a certain hesitation, at last.

AT HIS GATES.

" Object — ^the idiot !" said Mr. Burton. " I beg your pardon,
Drummondy I know he's a great friend of yours j but all that
nonsense exasperates me. Why, God bless me, his body is
sick, but his mind is as clear as yours or mine. Why can't he
judge for himself 1 I am quite ready to give hinder you, or
any one that interests me, the benefit of my expenence;' but
to take you on my shoulders, Drummond, you know, would fee
simply absurd. I can't foresee what may happen. I am ready
to run the risk myself. That's the best guarantee I can give
don't you think ? but I won't run any sentimental risks. You
may, if you like ; they are out of myjine."

" I don't know what you mean by sentimental risks."

** Oh, as for that, it is easy to explain. The man is veiy ill :
he will never be of any use in liie again, and loss would be
destructidn to him. Therefore I won't take the responsibility.
Why, there may be a revolution in England next year for any-
thing I can teE There may be an invasion. Our funds may
be down to zero, and our business paralyzed. How can I tell )
All these things are within the bounds of possibility, and if they
happened, and we went to smash, as we should infallibly,
Ti^at would Haldane do?"

" If there is nothing to alarm us closer at hand than a revo-
lution or ah invasion " said Drummond with a smile.

"How can we tell ? If I were asked to insure England, I
should only do it on a very heavy premium, I can tell ^ou.
And look here, Drummond, take my advice, always let a man
judge for himself, never take the responsibility. If you do,
youll be sorry after. I never knew a good man of business
yet who went in, as I said, for sentimental risks."

" I fear I shall never be a good man of business," said the
painter, with a certain sickness at his heart. " But tell me
now, suppose you were guardian to orphans, what should you
do with their money t 1 suppose that is what you would call
a very sentimental risk."

"Not so bad as Haldane," said Burton. "They would be
young and able to make their way if the worst came to the
worst. If they were entirely in my own hands I should invest
the money as I thought best ; but if there were other guardians
or relations, to make a fuss, I should put it in the Three per
Cents,"

AT HIS OATB&

" I really — don't — quite see what — difference that would

make " Bobert commenced, but his companion stopped hun'

almost roughly.

" The question won't bear discussing, Drummond. If I go
in with you, will your wife give me some lunch % I have lost
my whole morning to please my father-in-kw. Don't you
bother yourself about Haldane. He is a oleaivheaded /ellow,
and • perfectly able to iudee for Mm*--' * "

Then no more was said. If • pa<w % cloud hadco : ^ver
the rich man it fled at sight of the taole spreiid for luiu^neon,
and the sherry, upon which poor Robert (knowing almost as
little about that as he did about business) pridecl. himself vastly.
Mr. Burton applauded the sherry. He was more conversation-
al even than usual, and very anxious that Drumm ond should look
at a country-house in his neighbourhood. " If you can't afford
it now you very soon will," he said, and witliout referring to
Rivers's kept up such a continued strain of allusions to the
good fortune which was about to pour upon the house, that
Robert's nerves were comforted, he could scaixely have told
how. , But he went and worked all the afternoon in the studio
when the City man went off to his business. He laboured
hard at Francesca, fixing his whole mind upon Yaet, not even
whistling in his profound preoccupation. He had been absent
from the studio for some time, and the/ee/ of the old beloved
tools was delightful to him. But when the eai ly twilight came
and interrupted his work, he went out and took a l(mg walk
by himself, endeavouring to shake off the tremor which still
lingered about him. It was in his veins aiid in his nerves,
tingling all over him. He reasoned with hrnself, shook him-
self up roughly, took himself to task, but yet did not get over
it. " Bah ! it is simple sensation !" he said at last, and with a
violent effort turned his thoughts in another direction. But
the shock had left a tremor about him which was not quite dis-
sipated for days after ; for a man who is mado of fanciral artist-
stuffy iB not like a business inan with neryee of steel

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER VII.

OTHING happened, however, to justify Drummond'a
fears. The success of Bivers's in its new form was as
great and as steady to all appearance as that of its an-
cient phase. People vied with each other in rushing into it,
in crowding its coffers and its shan) lists. Stephen Haldane,
" left to himself," according to Mr. Burton's instructions, had
long since deposited all he had in its hands ; and almost all of
^berts's professional friends who had any money to invest,
mvesteduit in the bank which had an RA upon the roll of
directors. People came to him to ask his advice who in other
times would have given him theirs freely, with no such respect
for his judgment. But though this was the case, and though
ignorant persons in society sometimes wondered how he could
make the two occupations compatible, and cary on business
and art together, yet the fact was that businc and Eobert
had very little to do with each other. He weuv to the meet-
ings of the directors now and then. He was blandly pesent
sometimes at an auditing of accounjbs. He listened at times to
the explanations given by Mr. Golden, the manager, and
found them everyuung that was reasonable and wise. But
beyond that he cannot be said to have taken much part in the
management. For this mild part he was abundantly rewarded
— so abundantly that he sometimes felt half ashamed, reflect-
ing that the clerks in the offices actually contributed more to
the success of the place than he did, though they did not profit
half so much. He felt himself justified in taking a nice house
in the country, though not at Dura, at the end of the first sea-
son, and he gave his wife a pretty little carriage with two
ponies on her birthday, in which she drove about with a plea-
sure perhaps more real than that which any other circumstance
of their prosperity gave her. They dtd not leave their house
in St. Mary's Road, for it was dear to them in many ways, and
still satisfied all their wants ; and Robert could not tolerate
the idea of another painter using the studio he had built, or

AT HIS GATES.

another woman enjoying the conservatoiy which had been
made for Helen. " However rich we may grow — even if we
should even be able to a£ford that house in Park Lane-— we
must keep this/' he said ; '' no profane foot must come in, no
stranger intrude upon our household gods ; and Norah must
have it after us, the house she was bom in." Thus they
planned their gentle romance, though they had been a dozen
years married and more, an^ bought the house they loved with
their first disposable money. And Robert still loved his woric
and kept to it, though he did not need now to trouble about
the exhibitions and push on his pictures, working from the early
morning down to twilight to get it ready. He got a little lazy
about finished pictures, to tell the truth. Eveii Fraiicesca,
though he loved her, had been put aside on the spare easel,
and never completed. '* I will get up early and set to work
in earnest to-morrow," he always said ; but to-morrow generally
found him like the day before, making a study of something —
sketching in now one subject, now another — ^tormenting his
wife with questions as to which was best. She had a good
deal to put up with in this period ; but she kept up under it
and bore it all smilingly. Aud Robert, like so many more,
made his sketches much better than his pictures, and put ideas
upon his cauvass which, if he could but have carried Uiem out
might have been great.

Thus two years passed over the pair ; and there were times
when Helen thought, with a leap of her heart, that ea«e and
leisure had done what care and toil could not do — ^had roused
a spark of divine genius in her husband's breast. Now and
then he drew something that went right to her heart, and it
was she who had always been his harshest critic. When she
said to him one day suddenly, without purpose or meaning,
" I like that, Robert," he turning round upon her all flushed
and glowing, more radiant than when he was made an B.A.
It was not that he had supreme confidence in her knowledge
of art, but that her backing of him, the support which he had
longed for all these years, was more than the highest applause,
and invigorated his very soul. But he was so pleased to have
pleased her, that he set up his sketch upon a bigger canvass,
and worked at it and improved it till he had improved the soul
out of it, and Helen applauded no more. He was mudimorti-

i^'sr^xmsmmummie,

AT HIS GATES.

fied and disappointed at this failure ; but then in his humility
he said to himself, " What does it matter now 1 I am an R A.,
which is the best I could be in my profession, so far as the
world is concerned, and we have something else to stand upon
besides the pictures." Thus he consoled himself, and so did
she.

And, in the meantime, Norah kept growing, and Ldcame a
more distinct feature in the hogfsehold. She was a feature
more than an agent still ; though she was nearly twelve not
much was heard of her except the scales, which she still rattled
over dutifully every morning, and the snatches of songs she
• would sing in the lightness of her heart as she went or came.
On most ordinary occasions she simply composed such a fore-
ground to the family picture as Maurice had seen that October
night. She sat on a stool on on the floor somewhere, with a
book clasped in her arms, reading ; in summer she and her
book together crouched themselves against the window in the
room, getting the last gleam of daylight, and in winter she read
by the firelight which crimsoned her all over with a ruddy glow,
and scorched her cheeks. Perhaps it was because she was kept
conscientiously at work all day that Norah thus devoured iH
the books she could lay hands on in the evening. She sat in
her corner and read, and heard what was going on all the same,
and took no notice. She read everything from Grimm's Tales
and the Arabian Nights to Shakspere, and from Shakspere to
Tennyson, with an undiscriminating, aU-^levouring appetite ;
and as she sat in a dream, lost in one volume after another,
ihe current of life Howed past and she was aware of it, and
heard a hundred things she was unconscious of hearing, yet
remembered years after. She heard discussions between her
father and mother which she was supposed to pay no attention
to. And she did not pay any attention to them : but only
innocently — an unconscious eavesdropper — ^heard everything,
and received it into her mind. This was the child's position
in the house ; she was the centre of the picture — everything
somehow bore a reference to her ; she alone was silent in the
midst. The other two — who loved her, tallced of her, planned
for her, contrived that everything that was pretty and pleasant
and sweet should surround her waking and sleeping — had yet
no ijaunediate need of Norah. They were each other's com^

AT BIS GATES.

panionH, and she was the third — the one left out But she
waB too young to feel any jealousy, or to struggle for a place
hetween thetn» She had her natural place, alinays in the fore-
ground, a silent creature, unconsciously obseiTing, laying up
provision for her life.

** Are you not afraid to talk of everything before your daugh-
ter 1 " Mr. Golden said one day when she nad left the room.
" You know the old proverb, ' Little pitchers have long ears."

"Afraid of"— Norah?" said Bobert. The idea was so ex-
traordinary that he laughed first, though the rioment after he
felt disposed to be angry. " My child understands what honour
is, though she is so young," he said with paternal pride, and
then laughed, and added, " That is high-flown of course, but
you don't understand her. Golden ; how should you 1 She is
a thousand times too dieply occupied to care for what we are
saying. Pardon me, but the suggestion, to one who knows her,
is so very absurd."

"Ah, you never know where simplicity ends and sense
begins," said the bank manager. He had b< come a frequent
guest at St. Mary's Road. He was a man of ^'r. Burton's typef
but younger, slightly bald, perfectly brusheC;, clean, and per-
fumed and decorous. He was a little too heavy for the rdle
of a young, man in society ; and yet he danced and flirted with
the best when an opportunity offered. He nover spoke of the
City when he could help it : but he spoke a g,Teat deal about
Lady So-and-so's party, and the fine people ha knew. It was
difficult to make out how he knew them ; bit yet he visited,
or professed to visit at a great many of what are called " good
houses." As manager of the bank he had 3very man's good
opinion — he was at once so enterprising and so prudent, with
the most wonderful head for business. There was no one like
him for interpreting the " movements" on tho Stock Exchange^
or the fluctuations of the Funds. He explaine d business matters
so lucidly that even Drummond understood them, or at least
thought he did. But there were a good maay people who did
not like Mr. Golden. Helen for one had a natural antipathy
to the man. She allowed that she had no reason for it ; that
he was very civil, sometimes amusing, and t ad never donie any-
thing she could find fault with. But she disliked him all the
Dame. Norah was more decided in her sentiments^ and had i^

AT BIS GATISS.

olearar foundation for them. He had insisted on disturbing
her from her book one afternoon to shake hands with her ;
on another he had offered to kiss her, as a child, and she nearly
twelve 1 " But then you are so little of your age, Miss Norah.
I dare say the gentleman took you for nine," said her maid —
an explanation which did not render Norah more favourably
inclined towards the manager. And now he was tiying to
libel her, to traduce her to her father ! Even Bobert himself
was moved by this enormity ; it shook his opinion of his coun-
sellor. " That is all he knows," Drummond said to himself ;
and he resumed his conversation more distinctly than ever
when Norah came back.

In the meantime the Haldanes had thriven too, in their
way. Stephen was as helpless, a^ far from any hope of moving
as ever ; but he was well off, which alleviates much suffering.
The walls of his room were hung with Drummond's sketches,
half a dozen of them, among which were two pictures of Norah.
He lived in an arm-chair elaborately fitted with every possible
contrivance, with a reading-desk attached to its arm, and a table
close by, which could be raised to any height ; and his helpless
limbs were, covered with a silken quilt of Mrs. Haldane's own
working. There he passed the day and night without change :
but thaaks to Miss Jane and her mother, no strange eye had
looked upon the helpless man's humiliation ; they moved him
from his chair to his bed, and did every thing for him. The
bed was closed up by day, so that no stranger might suspect
its existence ; and the room was kept airy and bright by the
same unwearied watchers. Here he lived, making no com-
plaint. Whatever ^ feelings might be, whatever the repin-
ing, in his mind, he said nothing of them to i^ortal ear. A
shade of weariness the more upon his face, a deeper line than
usual between his eyes, were the only tokens that How and
ihen the deep waters overflowed his soul. And as for the
mother and sister, who were his slaves and attendants, they
had forgotten that there was anything unusual in his condition
— they had become accustomed to it. It seemed to them in
some sort the course of luiture. And God knows whether un-
consciously a feeling that it was " for the best" might not
sometimes steal into their minds. He was theirs for ever ; no
one could step in between them, or draw his h«art from Uieir

AT HIS OATCfl.

love. Had it been suggested to Mim Jano that nioh a seBti*
ment was poBsible, she would have rejectee!, it with hoiror ; and
yet in the depths of her heart it was there^ out of her own sifffat.
And he had an occupation in his seclusion which was a buss-
ing to him. He had become the editor of a little magazine,
which belonged to his " denomination," before he fell ill, and he
had been allowed to retain the post. This was the refuge of
his mind in his trouble, ^oor Stephen, he pleased himself
with the idea of still influencing somebod}', of preserving his
intercourse with the outer world. It had been a very homely
little publication when it came into hi» hands — a record of
what the " denomination " was doing ; the new chapels it was
building; the prayer-meetings gathered here and there, v lich
might grow into congregations ; and tlie tea-parties, which
furnished at once intellectual and social enjoyment for the peo-
ple. But Stephen had changed that ; he had put his mind iato
it, and worked it into a sort of literary organ. There were
reviews in it, and essays, and a great deal of discussions of the
questions of the day. These were approached firom the stand-
ing-ground of the denomination, it is true, but the discussions
were often far from being denominational. Up to this time,
however, the community ^ve no signs of disapproval. Mr.
Baldwin favoured the magazine, and the ^vriter of it was still
popular, and not yet forgotten. They gave him some fifty
pounds a year for this hard though blessed work which kept
his mind alive ; and his late congregation gave him fifty
pounds ; and the money in Rivers's bank had last quarter paid
ten per cent of profit. He was well off, he was indeed rich
for his wants, though he was not rolling in wealth like Drum-
mond. Money makes no man happy, but how much good it
does ! I^othing could make this poor man happy, rooi^. i thua
in his lmmov£U)le calm; but his ten per cent, kept him in
comfort, it gave him worship in the e}'^(!S of his people, who
were not fond of poverty ; it procured to him his only consola-
tion. He had no need to be indebted to any one ;4he could
even help the poor people of his former flock, and feel himself
independent. He could buy books, and give such quiet com-
forts and pleasures as they could enjoy to the w<»nen who
were so good to him. All these were great alleviations of the
sick man's lot. But for Rivers's how different would his posi-

At HtS OAt£fit.

tion have been I He would have been subject to tbe constant
inspection of deacons and brethren ; he would have been inter-
fered with in respect to his magazine. All the comfort and
freedom which remained to him were the result of the little
more which made him independent and put him above criti-
cism. What a poor thinff money is^ which cannot buy either
health or happiness ! and yet what a great thing 1 only the
poor know how great. ^

This time of prosperity had lasted for two years, when Mr.
Burton withdrew from the direction of the bank. He had
enlarged h|s business greatly in another way, and had no longer
time to bestow upon this ; and, indeed, he had professed all
along his desire to be free. This had been the object of the
old company in taking in " new blood," and now the new
company was able .to proceed alone upon their triumphant way.

" It is ycur turn to get into harness, Drummond," he said,
with a glance in which there was some contempt. Bobert didi
not see the scorn, but he laughed with perhaps a little gentle
confidence in his own power to be of use if he should choose to
exert himself.

** I must put myself into training first,*' he said.

" Grolden will do that for you. Golden is the best coach
for business I have ever came across," said Mr. Burton^ '* He
will put you uf) to everything, good and bad — ^the dddges as
wen as the le^timate line. Golden is not a' common man of
business — ^he is a great artist in trade."

There was a ciBrtain elation in his air and words. Was he
^lad to have shaken off the bonds of Rivers's, though they
were golden bonds ? This was the question which Helen asked
herself with a little surprise. The two men were dining at St.
Mary's Road on the night after Burton's withdrawal, and she
was still at table, though they had begun to talk of business.
As usual, she who took no part was the one most instructed by
tbe conversation. But she was bewildered,- not instructed, by
this. Sh9 could not midce out what it meaiit. She knew by
the best of all proofs that the bank was profitable and flour-
ishing. Why, then, did her «>usiii show such high, spirits 1
What was his elation about I Lon^ aftev, she reniembered
that she had noted this, and tnen n^ adIc to divine the mystery.
But now it only vurpiiised her vagudy, like a foreign phrase m
the midst of the language she knew,

AT HIS aATBS.

" The dodges axe amuBing/' said Mr. Gblden. ** The legiti-
mate drama is more dignified and imposing, but I rather tMnk
there is more fun in the work when you are living on the very
edge of ruin. The hairbreadth escapes one has — ^the Sense
that it is one's own cleverness that carries one through — ^the
delight of escaping from the destruction that seemed down
upon you 1 There is nothing like that/' he said with a laugh,
" in the steady plsbifcudes of ordinary trade."

And Mr. Burton iwghed too, and a glance passed between
them, such as mignt have passed between two old soldiers
who had gone many a campaign together. There was a
twinkle in their eyes, and the " Do you remember ?" seemed
to be on their very lips. But then they stopped short, and
went no further. Helen, still vaguely surprised, had to get up
and go away to the drawing-room ; and what more experiences
these two might exchange, or whether her husband would be
any the wiser for them, she was no longer able to see. Norah
waited her in the other room. She had just come to the end
of a book, and, putting it down with a sigh, came and sat by
her mother's side. They were alike in general features and
complexion, though not in the character of their faces.
Norah's hair was brighter, and her expression less stately and
graceful than Helen's — she had not so much distindioiif but she
had more life. Such a woman as her mother she was never
likely to be, but her attractions would be great in her own
way.

"How nice your velvet gown is, mamma !" said Norah, who
was given to long monologues when she spoke at all. "I like
to put my cheek upon it. When I am grown up, I will always
wear black velvet in winter, and white muslin in summer.
They are the nicest of all I do not think that you are too
old for white. I like you in white, with red ribbons. When
I am a little bigger I should like to dress the same as you, as
if we were two sisters. Mayn't we 1 Every body says you
look so young. But, mamma, ain't you glad to get away from
those men, and come in here to me f "

"You vain child!" said Helen. "I can see you whenever
I like, so it is no novelty to me y while papa's friends "

" Do you think they are papa's friends. I suppose there are
no villains nowadays, like whab there are in bookal" mii
s

AT HIS OATES,

Norah. ^* The world is rather different from books somehow.
There you can always see how everything happens ; and there
is always somebody clever enough to find out the villains.
Villains themselves are not very clever, they always let them-
selves be found out."

** But, my dear, we are not talking of villains/' said Helen.

" No mamma, only of that Mr. Golden. I hate him ! If you and
I were awfully clever, and could see into him what he means — "

"You silly Ifttlegirl ! You have readtoo many novels," said
Helen. " In the world people are often selfish, and think of
their own advantage first ; but they don't try to ruin others
out of pure malice, as they do in stories. Even Norah Drum-
mond sometimes thinks of herself first. I don't knoiv if she is
aware of it, but still it happens ; and though it is not always
a sin to do that, still it is the way that most sins come about."

This purely maternal and moral turn of the conversation did
not amuse Norah. She put her arm round her mother's waist,
and laid her cheek against the warm velvet of Helen's gown.

" Mamma, it is not fair to preach when no one is expecting
it," she said in an injured tone; "and just when I have you
all to myself! I don't often have you to myself. Papa thinks
you belong to him most. Often and often I want to come and
talk, but papa is so greedy ; you ought to think you belong
to me too."

"But, my darling, you have always a book," said Helen, not
insensible to the sweet flattery.

" When I can't have you, what else am I to do 1" said crafty
Norah ; and when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room^
the two were still sitting together, talking of a hundred things.
Mr. Golden came up, and tried very hard to be admitted into
the conversation, but Norah walked away altogether, and went
into her favourite comer, and Mrs. Drummond did not en-
courage his talk. She looked at him with a certain flutter of
Excited curosity, wondering if there was anything under that
smooth exterior which was dangerous and meant harm ; and
smiled at herself and said, *'No, no ; enemies and vil ains exist
only in books. The worst of this man would be that he would
pursue his own ends, let them suffer who might ; and his own
ends could not harm Drummond " — or so at least Helen
bought.

47 HI3 QATHSi.

67.

Iff

CHAPTER VIII.

(&£.

,T was in the summer of the third year of his bank director^
ship that Robert made his first personal entry into business.
The occasion of it was this. One of his early friends who
had been at school with him, and with whom he had kept up a
private and often interrupted intercourse, came to himi one
morning with an anxious face. He was in business himself,
with a little office in one of the dreary lanes in the City, a
single clerk, and very limited occupation. He had married
young, and had a large family ; and Drummond was already
aware that, while the lines had fallen to himself in pleasant,
places, poor Markham's lot had been hard and full of thorns.
He was now at the very criF'B of his troubles. He gave a
glance round the painter's handsome studio when he entered^,
at the pictures on the walls and the costly things about, and
the air of evident luxury that pervaded every thing, and sighed.
His own surroundings were poor and scant enough. And yet
he could and did remember that Drummond had started injife
a poorer man, with less hopeful prospects than himself. Such
a contrast is not lively or inspiriting, and it requires a generous
mind to take it kindly, and refrain from a passing grudge at
the old companion who has done so much better for himself..
Poor Markham had come with a petition, on which, he said,,
all his future life depended. He had made a speculation which
would pay him largely could he only hold out for three
months ; but without help from his friends this was impossible.
It was a large sum that he wanted — ^more than any private
friend would be likely to sive him — something between two
and three thousand pounds. The welfare of his family, his
very existence in a business point of view, and the hopes of
his children depended on his ability to tide those three monthsi
over. For old friendship's sake, for all the associations of theic
youth, would Drummond help himi Robert listened with bia
kindly heart full of sympathy. Long before the story was
4one, he be^an to calculate what he had at his dispoMJ^ kQifj

imms i3^*nas.

much he could give ; but the sum startled him. He could
not produce at a moment's notice a sum of nearly three thou-
sand pounds. With a troubled heart he shook his head and
said it was impossible — ^he had not so much money at his dis-
posal — ^he could not do it. Then MarkMam eagerly explained.
It was not from his friend's own purse that he had hoped for
it; but the bank! On Drummond's introduction, the bank
would do it. Biyers'tt could save him. JSo such request had
never been made to Robert before. Very few of his Mends
were business men. Their needs were private needs, and not
the spasmodic wants of trade. There were people who had
borrowed from himself personally, and some who had been
helped by him in other ways ; but this was the first appeal
made to his influence in the bank. He was startled by it in
his innocence of business ways. It seemed to him as if it was
like asking a private favour, turning over his own petitioner to
a third person. '* He is my friend, give him three thousand
pounds. It seemed to him the strangest way of being service-
able to his neighbour. But poor Markham had all the
eloquence of a partially ruined man. He made it clear to
Itobert, not only that such things were, but that they hap-
pened continually, and were in the most ordinary course of
nature. Th0 end was that they went out together, and had
an interview with Mr. Golden at the bank. And then Robert
found that his acquaintance had not exaggerated, that the
matter was even easier than he had represented it, and that
there would not be the slightest difficulty in ''accommodating"
the man who was Mr. Drummond's friend. Markham and he
parted at the door of the bank, the one with tears of gratitude
in his eyes, blessing God and Robert for saving him, and the
other with a bewildered sense of power which he had not real-
ised. He had not known before how much he could do, nor
what privileges his directorship put in his hands, and he was
confused by the discovery. It bewildered him, as a man
might be bewildered to know that he could bestow fertility or
barrenness on his fields by a glance — ^how strange the power
was, how sweet in this instance, how,--^angerous ! Yes, that
WBS the word. He felt afraid of himself as he went home. If
suoh plaints came to him often, it would be so difficult to resist
^tMkf and tihen^ A kind of horiible dread oam^ ov^ hi» mind.

AT SIS GATES.

Would the money ever be paid back tbat he had got bo easily t
The thought made his hand shake when he went back to tiie
peaceable work at which no such bewildering risks were run.

When the three months were over, Markham's money was
not paid ; on the contrary, he had fled to Australia, he and all
his ^ildren, leaving nothing but some Wwuched old fiiirniture
behind him. Poor Drummond was nearly beside himself. He
rushed to the bank when he heard the news, and protested
that the loss must be his. It was his fault, and of course
he must repay it. Mr. Golden smiled at him with a gen-
uine admiration of his simplicity. He told him» in a fatherly
way, of a speculation which had been very successful which had
cleared nearly the same sum of money. ** Putting the one to
the other, we are none the worse," he said ; ** every commercial
concern must make some bad debts."

Drummond went away with more bewilderment still, with
many new thoughts buzzing in his head, thoughts which
troubled the composure of his life. He himself being but an
artist, and not a merchant, was afraid of money. He touched
it warily, trafficked in it with a certain awe. He knew how
much labour it required to earn it, and how hard it was to be
without it. He could not understand the levity with which
Burton and Golden treated that potent thing. To them it was
like common merchandise, sugar or salt. A heap of it, as
much as would make a poor man's fortune, melted away in a
moment, and the bland manager thought nothing of it — ^it was
a bad debt. All this was so strange to him, that he did not
know what to make of it. He himself was guilty, he felt, of
having thrown away so much which belonged to other peopla
And eve^y other director on the board had the same power
which he had with a painful pleasure discovered himself to
have. And they knew better about it than he did ; and what
check could there be upon them t If every other man among
them had been art and part in losing three thousand pounds,
what could Robert say t It would not be for him to throw
the first stone. He felt like Christian in the story, when, upon
the calm hillside, he suddenly saw a door through which there
was, open and visible, the mouth of hell. It occurred to Robert
to go down, to the next meeting of directors, to tell them his
own story, and beg that the money lost through his mean9|shou7d

At ms OAtBS.

be subtracted from his priyate share of the capital, and to beg
all of them to do so likewise. He quite made up his mind to
this in the first tumult of his thoughts. But before the time for
that meeting came, a sense of painful ridicule, that bugbear of
the Englishman, had daunted him. They would call him a
fool, they would think he was " canting," or taking an oppor-
tunity to display his own disinterestedness. And accordingly
he accepted the misfortune, and was content to permit it to be
called a bad debt. But the enlightenment which it threw on
the business altogether gave Robert a shock which he did not
easily recover. It seemed to show him a possible chasm open-
ing at his very feet, and not at his only, but at the feet of all
the ignorant simple people, the poor painters, the poor women,
the sick men like Haldane, who had placed their little seed-corn
of money in Rivers's bank.

These thoughts were hot in his heart at the time of this mis-
adventure with Markham ; and then there came a lull, and he
partially forgot them. When no harm is visible, when the tran-
quil, ordinary course of affairs seems to close over a wrong or a
blunder, it is so difficult to imagine that everything will not go
well. He said as little as possible to Heleii on the subject,
and she did not take fright fortunately, having many things to
occupy her nowadays. There was her own enlarged and fuller
household ; the duties of society ; her charities, for she was
very good to the poor people near Southlees, then* house in the
country, and kept watch over them even from St. Mary's Road.
And she had now many friends who came and occupied her
time, and carried her off from her husband ; so that he had not
that resource of talking about it which so often lightens our
anxiety, and so often deepens it. In this instance, perhaps it
was as well that he could not awaken her fears to increase and
stimulate his own.

And thus everything fell into its usual quietness. Life was
so pleasant for them. They had so much real happiness to
cushion the angles of the world, and make them believe that
all would be always well Those who have been experienced in
pain are apt to tremble and doubt the continuance of happi-
ness when they attain it; but to those who have had no real
sorrows it seems eternal. Why should it ever C3me to an end?
This the Drummonds felt with an instinctive confidence. It

AT HIS OATESi.

9118 our

was easier to believe in any miracle of good than in the least
prognostic of eviL The sun was shining upon them ; summer
was sweet and winter pleasant. Th(>y had love, they had ease,
they had wealth, as much as they desired, and they believed
in it. The passing cloud rolled away from Robert's mind. He
reflected that if there was daneer there, there was danger in
everything ; every day, he said to himself, every man may be
in some deadly peril without knoiying it. We pass beneath
the arch that falls next moment ; we touch against some one's
shoulder unaware whose touch of infection might be death ; we
walk over the mined earth and brettthe air which might breed a
pestilence, and yet nothing happens to us. Human nature
is agiEiinst everything violent. Somehow she holds a balance,
which no one breaks down, though it is possible to be broken
down at any moment. The directors might ruin the bank in a
week, but they would not, any more than the elements, which
are ever ready for mischief, would clash together and produce
an earthquake. Such things might be; but never-— or so sel-
dom as to be next to never — ^are.

In the early autumn of that year, however, another shock
came upon the ignorant painter. His wife and Norah were at
Southlees, where he himself had been. Business had brought
him up against his will, busines;^ of the gentler kind, concern-
ing art and the Academy, not the bank. He was alone at St.
Mary's Boad, chafing over his solitude, and longing for home
and the pleasant fields. London, the London he knew and
cared for, had gone out of town. August was blazing upon the
parks and streets ; the grass Tvas the colour of mud, and the
trees like untanned leather. The great people were all away
in their great houses ; and among his own profession those, who
could afibrd it had started for Switzerland or some other holiday
region, and those who could not had gone for their annual whiff
of sea-air. Robert was seated by himself at breakfast, mourn-
fully considering how another day had to be got over, before
he could go home, when a hansom dashed up to the door, and
Mr. Golden, bland and clean t^ ever, but yet with a certain agi-
tation in his face, came in. He explained eagerly that he had
come to Drummond only because the other directors were out
of town. '' The fact is," ho t^aid, "I want you to come with
me, not to give you much trouble or detain you long, but to

AT HIS GATES.

stand by me, if you will, in a crisis. We have had some losses.
Those people in Calcutta who chose to stop pa3rment, like
fools, and the Sullivans' house at Liverpool. — It is only tempor-
ary. — But the Bank of England has made itself disagreeable
about an advance, and I want you to come with me and see the
governor."

'' An advance ! Is Kivers's in difficulties 1 is there anything
wrong I You take away my breath."

" There is no occasion for taking away your breath," said
Mr. Golden ; '4t is only for the moment. But it is an awk-
ward time of the year, for everybody is out of town. I should
not have troubled you, knowing you were not a business man,
but of course the presence of a director gives authority. Don't
be alarmed, I beg. I will tell you idl about it as we drive
along."

But what Mr. Golden told was very inarticulate to Robert,
what with the wild confusion produced in his own mind, and the
noise and dust of the sultry streets. It was the most tempor-
ary difficulty ; it was not worth speaking of ; it was a simple
misunderstanding on the part of the authorities of the Bank of
England. " Why, we are worth twenty times the money, and
everybody knows it," said Mr. Golden. His words, instead of
making Kobert confident, made him sick. His sin in that mat-
ter of Markham came darkly before him and, worse even than
that, the manager's words recaUed Markham's to him. In his
case, too it was to have been merely a temporary difficulty.
Drummond's imaginative mind rushed at once to the final catas-
trophe. He saw ruin staring him in the face — and not only
him.

The interview with the authorities of the Bank of England
did not make things much clearer to the amateur. They talk-
ed of previous advances ; of their regret that the sacred name
of " Rivers's " should be falling into mist and darkness ; of their
desire to have better securities, and a guarantee which would
be more satisfactory : to all of which Robert listened with con-
sternation in his soul. But at last the object was attained.
Mr. Golden wiped the moisture from his forehead as they left
the place. " That has been a tough battle," he said, " but,
thank Heaven ! it is done, and we are tided over, I knew
they would not be such fools as to refuse,"

over.

AT HIS OATia

if'.'i

''But, good God!" said Robert, ''what have you beten do-
ing 1 Wjbat is the meaning of it 1 Why do you require to go
hat in hand to any governor ) Is Bivers's losing its position 1
What has happened ) Why don't you call the shareholders
together and tell them if anything is wrong 1 "

" My dear Mr. Drummond ! " said Mr. Golden. He could
scarcely do more than smile and say the words.

** Don't smile at me," said Drummond in the ardour of his
heart. Do you consider that you have the very lives of hun-
dreds of people in your hands ? Call them together, and let
them know what remains, for God's sake I I'll make good what
was lost through me."

" You are mad," said Golden, when he saw that his gantle sneer
had failed; such a step would be ruin. Call together the
shareholders ! Why the shareholders ? — Mr Drummond, for
heaven's sake, let people manage it who know what they are
about."

" For heaven's sake ! for hell's sake, you mean," said Robert
in his despair. And the words reverberated in his ears, rang
out of all the echo js, sounded through the very streets " It
would be ruin ! " Ruin i that was the word. It deafened
him, muttering and ringing in his ears.

And yet even after this outburst he was calmed down. Mr.
Golden ei^lained it to him. It was business ; it was the com-
mon course of affairs, and only his own entire inexperience
made it so terrible to him. To the others it was not in the
least terrible, and yet he had no right to conclude that his col-
leagueb were indifferent either to their own danger, or to the
danger of the shareholders of whom he thought so much.
" The shareholders of course know the risks of business as well
as we do," Mr. Golden said. " We must act for the best, both
for them and for ourselves." And the painter was silenced if
not convinced. This was in the autumn, and during the en-
tire winter which followed the bank went on like a ship in a
troubled sea. After a while such a crisis as the one which had
so infinitely alarmed him became the commonest of incidents
even to Drummond. Now that his eyes had been once en-
lightened, it was vain to attempt any further concealment.
One desperate struggle he did indeed make, when in the very
midst of all this anxiety a larger dividend than usual wws d««

l jU4.^.it.,l. J.-,^

AT HIS OATEa

dared. The innocent man fought wildly against this practical
lie, but his resistance was treated as utter folly by the business
board, who were, as they said, " fighting the ship." '* Do you
want to create a panic and a run upon us ? " they asked him.
He had to be silent, overpowered by the judgment of men who
knew better than himself. And then something of the excite-
ment involved in that process of " fighting the ship " stole in-
to his veins. Somehow by degrees, nobody had been quite
aware how, the old partners of Kivers's had eone out of the con-
cern. It was true there been but three or (out to start with ;
now there was but one left — Lord Bivers, th^ !^ead of the house,
who never took any share in the business, und was as ignorant
as the smallest shareholder. The new directors, the fighting
directors, were men of a very different class, As the winter
went on the ship laboured more and more. Sometimes it
seemed ' to go down altogether, and then rose again with a
buoyancy which seemed almost tio justify hope. **T<mt pent se
ritabliry*' they said to each other. " After all we shall tide it
over." And even Robert began to feel that thrill of delight
and relief when a danger was " tided over," that admiration,
not of his own cleverness, but of the cleverness of others, which
Golden had once described. Golden came out now in his true
colours ; his resources were infinite, his pluck extraordinary.
But he enjoyed the struggle in the midst of his excitement and
exertion, and Drummond did not enjoy it, which made an im-
mense difference between them.

Things became worse and worse as spring came on. By that
time, so far as Drummond was concerned, all hope was over.
He felt himself sucked into the terrible whirlpool whence no-
thing but destruction could come. With a heart unmanned by
anxiety, and a hand shaken with suppressed excitement, how
could he go into his peaceable studio and work at that calmest
work, of art ? That phase of his existence seemed to have been
over for years. When he went into the room he loved it look-
ed to him like some place he had known in his youth — ^it
was fifty years off or more, though the colour was scarcely
dry on the picture which stood idly on the easel. When
he was called to Academy meetings, to consultations over
an old master, or a new rule, a kind of dull amazement
mied liis soul. Did people still care for such things — was

At HIS OATES.

it still possible that beauty and pleasantness remained in
life 1 There were people in these days who felt even that the
painter had fallen into bad ways. Tbey saw his eyes blood<
shot and his hands trembling. He was never seen with his
wife now when she drove her ponies through the park — even
in society Helen went sometimes out alone. And they had
been so united, so happy a pair. " Drummond will have no-
thing ready in April, the painters said to each other — "even
his diploma picture has never been firished — prosperity has not
agreed with himy When he was visible at all, his vacant air,
his tremulous look, the deep lines under his eyes, friglitened all
his friends. Dr. Maurice had spoken to him very seriously,
begging that he would be candid and tell his ailments. " You
cannot go on like this," he said. *' You are killing yourself,
Drummond." " How much can a man go through without be-
ing killed, I wonder f " poor Robert asked, with an unsteady
smile, and even his friend stopped short in dismay and per-
plexity. Was it dissipation ) Waf it some concealed misery 1
Could his wife have anything to do with it ? These sug^s-
tions flitted vaguely through the doctor's mind without bnng-
ing any certainty with them. Once he seemed to be getting
a clue to the mystery, when Robert rushed in upon him one
day, and with a show of levity sug;;ested that Haldane's money
should be taken out of the bank. " I know a better invest-
ment, and he should have the very best that is going," said
Drummond. Dr. Maurice was somewhat startled, for he had
money in Rivers's too.

" Where is there a better invesl;ment 1 " he asked.

" In the Three per Cents.," said Robert, with a hoarse laugh.

Was he mad ? Was he drunk 1 The doctor took a day
to consider it, to think whether there could be anything in it.
But he looked at the dividend papers, showing that Rivera's
that year had paid ten per cent. And he called upon Dr. Brad-
cliffe, and asked him to go with lim privately, accidentally j one
of these days, to see a friend wlnse brain was going, he feared.
The two physicians shook their heads, and said to each other
mournfully how common that mtia becoming. But Fate moved
faster than Dr. Maurice, and the accidental call was never
made.

■■^wisfcWijfflSiinas

msm

r«

A't HIS 0ATB8.

■'irj..r»rs'«'.n;rr

■ill

CHAPTER IX

J HE life which Helen Drummond lived during this winter
would be very hard to describe. Something wrong had
happened, she saw, on that rapid visit to town which
Robert haa made on Academical busmess in October, leaving
her at Southlees. No anxiety about business matters connected
with the bank had ever been suggested to her mind. She had
long ago accepted, as a matter m course, the fact that wealth
was to come from that source, with an ease and regularitv
very different from the toilsome and slow bread- winning whicn
was done by means of art She was not surprised by it as
Robert was ; and enough of the bourgeois breeding was left in
her to make her pleased that her husband should see the differ-
ence between the possibilities of his profession and of the com-
merce which she had been wont to near lauded in her youth.
She was almost proud that Trade had done so much for him.
Trade came from her side, it was she who had the hereditary
connection with it ; and the innate idealism of her mind was
able to cling to the old-fashioned fanciful conception of benefi-
cent commerce, such as we have all heard of in our educational
days. But her pride was not sensitive on this point. What
really touched her was the praise or the blame which fell upon
him as a painter, and the dread that instantly sprang into her
mind was that he had met with something painful to him in
this respect — that his opinion had not been received as of weight
in the deliberations of the Academy, or his works had been spo-
ken of with less respect than they ought to have secured. This
was the foolish fancy that took hold of her mind. She ques-
tioned him about the Academy meeting till poor Robert — his
thoughts occupied about things so very different — ^grew sick of
the subject. Yet he was almost glad of some subject on which
to vent a little of his excitement. Yes, they were a set of old
foffies, he said with audacious freedom. They pottered about
thmgs they did not understand. They puzzled and hesitated
over that Rembrandt, which any one with half an eye could

AY HIB OATIB.

6<3 httd been worked at by some inferior hand. They threw oold
water upon that lovehest Franoia which nobody oonld see with-
out recoenising. They did what they ought not to do, and
neglected what was their duty. ''We all do that every day of
our lives," said Helen ; " but what was there that specially
vexed you, Robert f " Nothing," he said, looking up at her
with eyes full of astonishment ; but there was more than astonish-
ment in them. There was pain, dread, anxiety — a wistfiil,
restless look of suffering. " He will not tell me : he will keep
it to himself and suffer by himself, not to vex me," Helen said
in her own thoughts. And though the autumn was lovely,
Robert could not be happy at {^uthlees that year. He had
been very happy the two previous summers. The house was
situated on the Thames, beyond Teddington. It was rustic
and old, with various additions built to it ; a red-brick house,
grown over with all manner of lichens, irregular in form and
harmonious with its position, a house which had grown — which
had not been artificially made. The family had lived on the
lawn^ or on the river in those halcyon days that were past.
There was a fringe of trees at every side except that, shutting
in the painter's retirement ; but on the river side nothing but a
few bright flower-beds, and the green velvet lawn, sloping to-
wards the softly flowing water. One long* leaved willow drooped
over the stone steps at which the bo&t was lying. It was a
place where a pair of lovers might have spent their honey-
moon, or where the weary and sick might have come to get
healing. It was not out of character either with the joy or
the grief. Nature was so sweet, so silent, so meditative and
calm. The river ran softly, brooding over its own low lic^uid
gurgle. The stately swans sailed up and down. The httle
fishes darted about in the clear water, and miriads of flying
atoms, nameless insect exisicences, fluttered above. Boating
parties going down the stream would pause, with a sigh of gen-
tle envy, to look at the group upon the lawn ; the table with
books and work on it, with sometimes a small easel beside it
or big drawing pad supportiod on a stand ; a low chair with
Helen's red shawl thrown over it, and Norah, with her red
ribbons, nestled on the sunn}! tur£ They sat there, and worked,
and talked, or were silent, with an expansion of their hearts
towards everything that breathed and moved ; or they spent

AH WIB &AT|ia

]fmg days on the river, catoMng the mcmiing HghtAupon those
nooks whieh ere ouly known to dwellers on the 8tr<»am ; or
pursuing water-lilies through all the golden afternoon in the
hack-waters which these retired flowers love. The river was
their life, and rjxned them along, day after day. Such a
scene could not but be sweet to every lover of nature ; but it
is doubly sweet when the dumb poetic imagination Jias by its
side that eye of art which, sees everything. The painter is a
better companion even than the poet — just as seeing is better
than spying that you see. JElobert was not a genius in art :
but he kid the artist's animated, all>perceiving eye. Nothing
escaped him — he saw a hundred beautiful things which would
have been imperceptible to ordinary men — u dew-drop on a
blade of grass at hit? feet chanued him as much as a rainbow —
his " Lo'>k, Helen ! " was more than volumes of descriptive
poetry. They were out and about at all times, " watching the
lights," as he said in his ple^isant professional jargon : in the
early mornings, when all was silvery softness and clearness,
and the birds were tr}ring over their choicest trills before men
woke to hear ; in the evening when twilight came gently on,
insinuating her filmy impenetrable veil between them and the
sunset ; and even at full noon, when day is languid at the
height of perfection, knowing that perfectness is brother to
decadence. The painter and his wife lived in the middle of all
these changes, and took them in, every one to the firmament in
their hearts. jim jiu^v , ;

Why do we stop in this record of trouble to babble about
sunset skies ^Aud ru]^ng waters ) Is it not natural ) The
'* sound as of a hidden brook in the leafy month of June"
comes in,: by right, among all weird, mysterious harmonies of
every tragical lute. *^ The oaten pipe and pastoral reed " have
their share even in the hurly-burly of cities and noisy discord
of modem existence. Robert Drummond had his good things
as well as his evil things. For these two summers never man
had been more happy — ^and it is but few who can say as much.
His wih was happy with him, her old ghosts exorcised, and a
new light suffusing her life. It seemed a new life altogether,
a life without discontents, full of happiness, and tranquillity,
and hope. ,

$^t this auti^mn Robert was not happy at Bouthlees. He

AT kiS GATES.

coald not stay there peaceably, as he had done before. He
had to go to town *'on business/' he said, sometimes twice a
week. He took no pleasure in his old delights. Though he
could not help seeing still, his ** Look, Helen ! " was no longer
said in a tone of enthusiasm ; and when he had uttered the
familiar exclamation he would turn away and sigh. S0111&-
times she found him with his face hidden in his hands, andpressr
ed against the warm greensward. It was as if he were Imock-
ing for admission at the gates of the grave, Helen thought, in
that fancifulness which comes of fear as much as of hope.
When she questioned him he would deny everything, and work
with pretended gaiety. Every time he went to town it seemed
to her that five years additional of line and cloud had been
added to the lines on his forehead. His hair began to get
grey ; perhape that was no wonder, for he was forty, a pilgrim
already in the sober paths of middle age ; but Helen was near-
ly ten years younger, and this sign of advancing years seemed
unnatural to her. Besides, he was a young man in his hearty
a man who would be always young; yet he was growing old
before his time. But notwithstanding his want of enjoyment
in it he was reluctant that his wife should leave Southless soon*
er than usual. He would go into town himself, he declared.
He would do well enough-^what did it matter for a few
weeks ) " For the sake of business it is better that I should
go — but the winter is long enough if you come in the end of
the month. No, Helen, take the good of it as long as you can
— this year."

" What good shall I get of it alone, and how can I let you
live for weeks by yourself? " said Helen. " You may think it
is fine : be independent ; but you could not get on without
Nonih and me."

"No," he said, with a shudder. "God knows life would be
a poor thikig without Norah and you ! but when it is a ques-
tion of three weeks — I'll go and see my friends ; I'll live a
jovial bachelor life "

" Did you see the Haldanes," she asked, " when you were
in town last V

It was the most innocent, unmeaning question ; but it made
him grow pale to the very lips. Did he tremble 1 Helen was
so startled that sue did not even irealise how it was he looked*

m^^mmmH' is-.i..

AT HIS OATEa

** H<»r ooM the wind blows/' he said with a shiver. '^ I
must have caught oold, I suppose, last night. The Haldanes t
No j I had no time."

" Robert, something worries you," she said earnestly. "Tell
me what it is. Whatever it is, it will not be so heavy when
you have told me. You have always said so— since ever we
have been together."

"And truly, my darling," he said. He took her hand and
held it tenderly, but he did not look at her. " I cannot tell
you of worries that don't exist, can I V he added, with an ex-
aggerated cheerfulness. '' I have to pay a little attention to
business now the other men are out of town And business
bores me. I f'on't understand it. I am not e^ver at it. But
it is not worth while to call it a worry. By-and-l^ they will
come back, and I shall be free."

When he said this he really believed it, not being then fully
aware of the tormenting power of the destruction which was
about to overwhelm him. He thought the other directors
would come back from their holidays, and that he himself would
be able to plunge back into that abyss of ignorance which was
bliss. But Helen did not believe it : not from any ivne per-
ception of the state of affairs, but because she could not believe
it was business at all that troubled him. Was Eobert the kind
of man to be disturbed about business 1 He who cared no-
thing for it but as a means, who liked money's worth, not
money, whose mind was diametrically opposite to all the habits
and traditions of trade 1 She would as soon have believed
that her cousin Reginald Burton would be disturbed by a criti-
cism or troubled to get a true balance of light and shade.
No, it was not that. It was some real trouble which she did
not ^ now of, something that struck deeper than business, and
was more important than anything that belonged to bank or
market. Such were Helen's thoughts — they are the thoughts
that come most natural to a woman — that he had been betray-
ed into some wrong-doing or inadvertant vice — that he had
been tempted, and somehow gone astray. This, because it was
80 much more terrible than anything about business, was the
bugbear that haunted her. It was to save her pain, as he
thought, that poor Robert kept his secret from her. He did
m 80 many men do, thinking it kindness; and thus left her

▲T HIS GATES.

with a host of horrible surmises to fight against, any one of
which was (to her) harder than the truth. There is no way in
which men, in their ignorance, inflict more harm upon women
than this way. Helen watched in her fear and ignorance with
a zealous eagerness that never lost a word, and gave eza^erat-
ed importance to many an idle incident. She was doubly
roused by her fear of the something coming, against which her de-
fences would not stand, and by her absolute uncertainty what this
something was. The three weeks her husband was in town by
himself were like three years to her. Not that a shade of j ealousy
or doubt of his love to herself ever crossed her mind. She was
too pure-minded, too proud, to be jealous. But something had
come on him, some old trouble out of the past — some sudden
horrible temptation ; something, in short, which he feared to
tell her. Tha4i money could be the cause of it never crossed
her thoughts.

And when she ^^ent home things were no better ; the house
looked bare to her-— die could not teU why. It was more than
a month before she iwLiA out that the Perugino was gone,
which was the light of her husband's eyes ; and that little
Madonna of the Umbrian school, which he delighted to think
Baphael must have had soMt^ hand in, in his youth. This dis-
covery startled her much ; but worse had come before she
made sure of that. The absence of the pictures was bewilder-
ing, but still more so was the change in her husband's habits.
He would get up early, breakfast hurriedly before sho had come
down, and go out, leaving a message with the st^rvant.^. Some-
times he went without breakfast. He avoide«i be •, avoided
the long evening talks they had loved, and eveit avoided her
eye, lest she should read more in his face than he meant htvr to
see. All this was terrible to Helen. The iej*rs that ever-
whelmed her were ridiculous, no doubt ; but amid the darkness
and tragic gloom which surrounded her, what was she to think ?
Things she had read in books haunted her ; iictitious visi:>r<3
which at this touch of personal alarm began to look real. S^ :
thought he might have to bribe some one who knew some early
secret in his ]£fe, or some secret that was not his — somethir^
that belonged to his friends. Oh, if he would but tell her !
She could bear anything — she could forgive the past, whatciyf'j
it might be. She had no bitterness in her feelingis towards b«r

AT HIS GATES.

husband. She used to sit for hours togisthor in his deserted
studio, imagining scenes in which she found oUt^ or he was
driven to confide to her this myatery ; scenes of anguish, yet'
consolation. The studio became her favourite haunt. Was it ^
possible that she had once entered it with languid interest, and
been sensible of nothing but disappointment when she saw him
working with his heart in his work ? She would go all rou.nd
it now, making her little comment upon every picture. She
would have given everything she had in the world to see him
back there, painting those pictures with which she had been
so dissatisfied — the Francesca, which still stood on its easel un-
finished ; the sketches of herself which she had once been so
impatient of The Francesca still stood there behind backs ;
but most of the others had been cleared away, and stood in
little stacks against the walls. The floor was so orderly that it
wentto herhearttosee it;nothinghad been done, nothing disturb-
ed for weeks, perhaps months ; the housemaid was free to go and
come as if it had been a common parlour. All this was terri-
bly sad to the painter's wife. The spring was coming on be-
fore she found the two sketches which afterwards she held so
dearly. They bewildered her still more, and filled her with a
thousand fears. One represented a pilgrim on a hilly road, in
the twilight of a spring evening. Everything was soft in tbia
picture, clear sky and twinkling stars above ; a quiet rural path
over the grass ; but just in front of the pilgrim, and revealing
his uplifted hands and horror stricken countc nance, the open-
ing of a glowing horrible cavern — the mouth of Hell. The
other was more mysterious still. It was a face full of anguish
and love, with two clasped hands looking up from the depths
of a cave or well, to one blue spot of sky, one star that shone
far above. Helen did not know what these sketches meant;
but they made her shiver with wonder and apprehension.
They were all that he had done this year.

And then something else of a different kind, came in to
bewilder her. Eobert, who avoided her, who of evenings no
longer talked over his affairs with her, and who probably had
forgotten all her wants, let the quarter-day pass without sup-
plying her, as he was in the habit of doing. So great a host <S>f
fears and doubts were between the two, that Helen did not
remind kim of his negligence. It {lainedL her, but in &, deg|L«&

AT HIS OAXm

so different. Wliat did thftt r ' '»rr , Bat time went on, md
it began to matter. , She took jwq little dividends, and .

kept silence ; making what u them she could to fill up the
larger wants. She was as timid of speaking to him on this
subject as if she had been a young giiL He had never obliged
her to do so. She had been the general treasurer of the house-
hold in the old days ; and even in recent times, he, who was
so proiid of his wife, had taken care to keep her always sup-
plied with what she wanted. She never hsA needed to go to
him to ask money, and she did not know how to begin. Thus
they both went their different way ; suffeiing perhaps, about
equally. His time seemed to himself to be spent in a feverish
round of interviews with people who could supply money, or
wildly signing his name to papers which he scarcely understood ;
to bills which he could never dream of paying; they would
be paid somehow when the time came, or they could be re-
newed, or something would be done, he was told. He had
carried everything he could make money by away before
this time; the title-deeds of his house, his pictures, even,
and — this was done with a very heavy heart — his policies
of life insurance. Everything was gone. Events went faster
as the crisis approached, and Drummond became conscious
of little more than his wife's pale face wondering at him, with
questioning eyes more pathetic than words, and Golden 's face
encouraging, or trying to encourage. Between the two was a
wild abyss of work, of despair, of tiding over. Every escape
moie hairbreadth than the last ! The wild whirl growing
wilder ! the awful end, ruin and fell destxuction, coming nearer
and more near 1

It happened at length that Helen one day, in desperation,
broke the silence. She came before him when he was on his
way out, and asked him to wait, in a hollow voice.

" I don't want to trouble you," she said, "since you will not
trust me, Robert. I have been trying not to harass you more;
but — I have no money left — I am getting into debt — the ser-
vants want their wages. Kobert — I thought you had for-
gotten — perhaps "

He stood and looked at her for a moment, with his hat in
his hand, ready to go out. How pale he was ! How the lines
had contracted in his face ! He looked at her, trying to be

AT HtS OATlEa

calm. And then, as he stood, suddenly burst, without waming,
into momentary terrible tears, of a passion she could not
understand.

** Robert 1 oh, what is the matter T she cried, throwing
her arms around him. He put his head down on her shoulder,
and held her fast, and regained control over himself, holding
her to him as if she was something healine. In her gi^at
wonder and pity she raised his head with her hands, and gazed
wistfully into his face through her tears. "Is it money r she
cried, with a great load taken off her heart *' Oh, Robert^
tell me! Istbat alU" "^'^

"All ! " he mid : " my God!" and then kissed her passion*
ately, and put ]u^v away from him. ** To-morrow," ne SB.vi
hoarsely, "peili )s — I hope— I will tell you everything
to-morro'.v. ' He lid not venture to look at her again. He
went out rrvaight ivithout turning to the right or left. "The
end must be m^^r now," he said to himself audibly, as he went
out like a blind mj*n. "To-morrow I Would »<o-morrow ever
come) The end must be near now."

The end was nearer than he thought. When he reached the
bank he found everything in disorder. Mr. Golden was not
there, nor any one who could give information to the panic-
stricken inquirers who were pouring in. It was said the
manager had absconded. Bivers's was at an end. For the
first ten minutes after Drummond heard the news that awaited
him, it was almost a relief to know that the worst had come.

4T IPB QATWB,

8ft

vO^

CHAPTER X.

^T was a relief for ton minuteSi aa every catastrophe is ; the
terrible suspense is cut short — ^the worst at least is known.
But after those tsn minutes are over, when the reality
suddenly seizes upon the sufferer — when all the vague speech
less terrors which he had pushed ofi' from him, with the hope
that they might never come, arrive in a flood, and place thenl'
selves in one frightful circle round him, like furies, only not
merciful enough to hjive a Medusa among them to freeze him
into stone ; when every shadowy gloomy prevision of evil which
ever flashed across his mind, to be put away with a shudder,
returns with the right of fact, to remain ; when not only that
thing has happened which has been his dread by day and the
horror of his dreams, but a host of other things, circumstances
which penetrate to every detail of his life, and affect every
creature and everything he loves, have followed in its train-^r
when all this rushes upon a man after the first tranquilHsing
stupor of despair, wko or what is there that can console him 1
Poor Drummond w;i8 helpless in the midst of this ereat crash
of ruin ; he was so helpless that the thunder-stricKen share-
holders and excited clerks who had fallen upon him at first as
the only authority to be found, let him slip from among them,
hopeless of any help from him. They had driven him wild
with questions and appeals — him, a poor fellow who could
explain nothing, v ho had never been of much use except to
denude himself of everything he possessed, and pledge his
humble name, and be swept into ruin ; but they soon saw the
uselessness of the tppeal. Ah loon as he could disengage him-
self he stole away, drawing his hat nvnr his eves, f»uUngas if he
were a criminal, ^nih. the sensatlun as of a hot fire burning in
his heart, and bu ;zing and crackling in his ears. Was he a
criminal 1 was it Ids uouig I lie was stunned by this terrible
calamity ; and y it, now that it had come, he felt that he had
known it was coi aing, and everything about it. all his life.
His whole existence had tended to this point since he was a

A9 Ylfls iAAtIM.

boy ; he knew it, he felt it, he even seemecl to remember pre-
monitions of it, which had come to him in his dreams from
his earliest days. He went out into the streets in that dumb
quiescent state which is so often the first consequence of a great
calamity. He offered no remonstrance against his fate. He
did not even say to himself that it was hard. He said nothing
to himselfy indeed, except to crooii over, like a thorns, one
endless refrain, " I knew this was how it would be ! "

He wandered along, not knowing where he went, till he
came to the river, and paused there looking over the bridge.
He did not even know what made him pause, until all at once
the fancy jumped into his brain that it would be best to stop
there, and cut in one moment the knotted, tangled thread
which it was certain no effort of his could ever unravel. He
stopped and the suggestion flashed across him (whether out of
his own mind, whether thrown at him by some mocking
demon, who could tell ? and then shook his head sadly. No ;
it was broad day, and th^re would be a commotion, and he
would be rescued — or if not he, at least his body, ^buld be
rescued and carried to Helen, giving her a last association with
him, which it was insupportable to think of. No, no, he said
to himself with a shudder, not now. Just then a hand was
laid upon his shoulder ; he turned round with the stai^; of a
man who feels that nothing is impossible, that everything that
is terrible has become likely. Had it been a policeman to arrest
him for having murdered somebody, he would scarcely have
been surprised. But it was not a policeman; it was Mi.
Burton, fresh and clean and nicely dressed, newly come up from
the country, in his light summer clothes, the image of pros-
perity and comfort, and cleanliness, and self-satisfaction. A
certain golden atmosphere surrounded the man of wealth, like
the back ground on which early painters set a saint ; but there
was nothing saintly about that apparition. Poor Drummond
fell back more than he would have done had it been an arrest
for murder. He gave an involuntary glance at himself, feeling,
in contrast with Mr. Burton, as if he must look to the exter-
nal eye the beggar he was as if he must be dirty, tattored, miser-
able, with holes in his shoes and rags at his elbows. Perh^is
his woebegone, excited face startled the , smooth Philistine at
his side as much as if those outward signs of wretchedness had
been there.

At ns oATEa

«y

**Qood God, what have you been doing with yotuself /** he
cried.

" Nothing," said Drummond vaguely, and then by degrees
his senses returned to him. " If you had been in town
yesterday you might have helped us ; but it does not matter.
Shenken, in Liverpool, stopped payment yesterday," he went on,
repeating drearily the dreary legend which he had heard at
the bank. " And Rivers's — has stopped payment too."

" Good God ! " said Mr. Burton again. It was a shock to
him, as every event is when it comes. But he was not sur-
prised. As for Robert, it did not occur to him to consider
whether the other was surprised or not, or to be curious how
it affected him. He turned his head away and lor)ked at the
river again. What attraction there remained for him in thi!*
world seemed to lie there.

" Drummond," said the merchant, looking at him with a
certain alarm, " are you sure you know what you are saying 1
My God, Rivers's stopped payment ! If you had said there had
been an earthquake in London, it would scarcely be as bad
as that.

Robert did not make any reply. He nodded his head
without looking round. What interested him was something
black which kept appearing and disappearing in the middle of
the turbid muddy stream. It was like a man's head, he thought,
and almost felt that he might have taken the plunge without
knowing it, and that it might be himself.

"I have felt this was coming," said Burton. " I warned
Golden you were going on in the wildest way. What could
be expected when you fellows who know nothing about money
would interfere ? Good heavens ! to think what a business
that was ; and all ruined in three years ! Drummond ! are
you mad ? Can't you turn round and speak to me 1 I am
one of the shareholders, and I have a right to be answered
how it was."

"Shall you lose much 1" .said Drummond dreamily, and he
turned round without meaning anything and looked in his
companion's face. His ^.ction was simply fantastical, one of
those motiveless movements which the sick soul so often
makes ; but it was quite unexpected by the. other, who fell a
step back, and grew red all over, and faltered in his reply.

AT HIS OATIU.

'' Much 1 I — ^I-— don't know — what jou call much. Good
heavens, Dromniond are yon mad ? Have yon been drinking f
Where is Golden 1 — he at least must know what he is about ! "
" Yes," said the painter fiercely, " Golden knows what he is
about — he has gone off, out of reach of questions — and you —
oh — hound!" He save a sudden cry and made a step for-
ward. A sudden lielit seemed to burst upon him. He gassed
with his dilated bloodshot eyes at the flushed countenance
which could not face him. The attitude of the two men was
such as the bystanders took note of it ; two or three lingered
and looked round holding themselves in readiness to interfere.
The slight figure of the painter, his ghastly pale face and
trembling hand, made him no antagonist for the burly well-to-
do merchant ; but English sentiment is always on the side of
the portly and respectable, and Mr. Burton had an unmistak-
able air of fright upon his face. " Now, Drummond ! — now
Drummond!'' he said, with a certain pleading tone. The
painter st<ood still, feeling as if a horrible illumination had
suddenly flashed upon the man before him, and the history of
their intercourse. He did in that moment of his despair
what he could not have done with his ordinary intelligence.
He made a rapid summary of the whole and saw how it was.
Had he been happy, be would have been too friendly, too
charitable, too kind in bis thougiifs to have drawn such a
conclusion. But at this moment he had no time for anything
but the terrible truth.

'^ see it all," he said. " I see it all ! It was ruined when
fwe it over to us. T see it in every line of your face,
lound ! hounds all of you ! skulking, dastardly demons,
kill a crowd of honest men to save yourselves — your
miserable selves. I see it all !"

*' Drummond ! I tell you you are mad !" " Hound ! " said
Robert again between his clenched teeth. He stood looking
at him for a moment with his hands clenched too, and a sombre
fire in his eyes. Whether he might have been led into
violence had he stood there a moment longer it would be im-
possible to say. But all the habits of his life were agais^st it,
and his very despair restrained him. When he had stood
there for a second, he turned round suddenly on his heel with-
out any warning, and almost knocking down a man who was

▲T Mm QAVmL

keeping warily beliind him ready for any eluergmef, went

away in the opposite direction without saying a word. Burton
stood still gazing after him with amixtnre of consternation and
concern, and something very like hatred. Bat his face
changed when the spectators drew round him to wonder and
question. "Something wiong with that poor genUeman, I
fear, sir," said one. Mr. Burton put on a look of regret,'
sighed deeply, put his hand to his forehead, shook his head,
murmured — " Poor fellow " and walked — away. What could
he do ) He was not his brother's keeper, much less was he
responsible for his cousin's husband — the paltry painter-fellow,
she had preferred to him. What would Hel^i think of her
bargain now? Mad or drunk, it did not mat which — a
pleasant companion for s woman. He prefenc . to think of
this for the moment, rathor than of the other question, which
was in reality so much more important. Kivers's ! Thank
heaven, he was no money loser, no more than was respectable.
He had seen what was earning. Even to himself, this was all
that Mr. Burton said. He hurried on, however, to l^ym what
people were saying of it^ with more anxiety in his mind than
seemed necessary. He went to the bank itself with the air of
a man going to a funoral. "The place I have known so
long !" he said to another mournful victim who had appeared
on the field of the lost battle, but who was not mad like Robert
" And to think that Gclden should have betrayed your con*
fidence ! A man I havo known since he was that height — a
man I could have answered for with my life ! "

Meanwhile Drummond strayed on he knew not where. He went
back into the City, into the depths of those lanes and narrow
streets which he had leit so lately, losing himself in a bewil-
dering maze of warehouse walls and echoing traffic. Great wag-
gons jammed him up a/^ainst the side, loads dangled over his
head that would have crushed him in a moment, open cellars
yawred for his unsteady feet ; but he walked as safe through
all those perils as if he had borne a charmed life, though h9
neither looked nor carod where he was going. His meeting with
Burton was forced out of his mind in a few minutes as if it had
not been. For the moment it had startled him into mad est
citement ; but so strong was the stupor of his despair, that in
five minutes it was as if it had never been. For hours he ^e^pt

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

INI

AV Hm ft4Tm

inBdaSa^ rmmd and mud tht teeneof hkUin^ eovdngtmd gd-
inj^ Iti a eatltif aa if lki« feet were fiist and he could not escape.
Ittiadbeensioniingwhenhe left his house. It ^^aslate afternoon
when he gtyt back. Oh, why was it summer and the days so
long t If onlT that scorching sun would have set and darkness
fallen over the place. He stole in under cover of the lilac
trees, which had grown so big and leafy, and managed to glide
down the side way to the gaiden and get to the studio door,
whkh he could open with his key. He had been doing no-
thing but think—think — all the time ; but "novr, at least, I shall
have tim^to think," he said tobimself, as he threw himself down
on a chair dose to the door — the nearest seat — ^it ho longer mat-
tered where he placed himself or how. He sat huddled up
against the wall as sometimes a poor modd did^ waiting wist-
IqIIv to iknow if he was wanted — some poor wretch to whom a
shilling was salvation. This fancy, with a thousand othei^
e({ually inappropriate, flashed across his mind as he sat there,
still with his hat pulled down on his brows in the sunny luxu-
YHnis Wiinnth <>f the afternoon. The mere atmosphere, air,
and sk^^-and sunshine would have been paradise to the artist
in the poorest time he had ever known before, but they did not
affect 1dm now. He sat there in his stupor for perhaps an hour,
not even Me to rouse himself so far as to shut the door of
communication into the (^nservatoiy, through which he
hieard now and then the softened stir of the household. He
inight have been restored to the sense of life and its necessities,
might have been brought back out of the delirium of his rUin
at that nioment, had any one in the house known he was there.
£[^len was in the drawing-room, separated from him only by
that bowery passage which he had made for her, to tempt her
t6 Visit him at his work. She was writing notes, inviting
JM>me half dozen people to dinner, as had. been arranged be-
tween them, bttt with a heavy and anxious heart, full of
B^sgiving. She h^ risen from her writing table three or four
tihi^ to eo to the window and look out for her husband, won-
jA^r^ff why he should be so long of coming— while ^e sat so
tiiMb*'her. Mrs. Drummond's heart was very heavy. She did
liot liniderstand what he had said to her in the moming^^could
ttbt' Idiagiiiie hbw H could b6. It must be a temporary cloud, a
^iire of some speculation,' something unconnected with the

^ma^4A!rm.

not a btiiuiffii maliMt tdiiM' lk>t be mos^. U if was only
nion^y/ l^iiy' that ira* libthing. Such was^ cotihie of her
thoughts. And she paused over her invitatiioni, woLlciring if
it was right to dve them if Rob<»rt had been losing mon^.
But they were old fMehds'irhoiid lElhe was inviting— onl^ hidf a
dozen people-^^nd it -^as for his birthday. Bhe had jUst filiisk-
ed her lobt note, when Korah citine dancing into the t^m,
claiming her mother's promise to go out with her j and afber
andther lon^ gaze firom her >/indow, Helen made u^ h^r mind
to go. It was her voice spealdng to the maid which roused
Bobett. "If Mr. I)rummond comes in before I return," he
heard her say; " tell' him I shall t^ot be long. I tan goitg with
Miss Norah to the Gardens for an hour, and then to ask fdt
Mr. Haldane ; but I shall be back by half^past six. He heard
the messag^h^ for whom it was intended— and rose upi^xftly
and went to his studid window^ and peeped stealthily out to
watch them as they went away. Nondi came first, with a skip
and a gambol, aud then Helen. His wife gave a wistful loos
biEick kt/fiie lidtise^ ^'^^ openjBd the little gate under the leafy
dusty Mci 'Wa^'it is^Q pri^tbotii^on of what she should find
when shci cau^e badll^ H(i hid- h&hsdf «& that he «ould not b^
seen, and gazed at the two, feeliiig its if that inon!i^M WaiiMl
that life had yet to give hitn. Itwas his farewell look. Wa Wifb
and child diisappeared, and he could hear their footsteps outside
on the pavement going farth^ abd farther away on their harm-
less, unimportant 'wiuk, while he-^^He, woke up as if it had
been out of sleep or oiit of a trance. She would return by half-
past six, and it Was now approadhing five. For all he had to
do there was so little, so very little time.

So he ^d to himself, and yet when he said it he had no
clear ideia of what he was going to do. He had not only to do
it, whatever it was, but to make up his mind, aQ in an hour
and a half; and for the first five ininutes of that little interval
he was like a man dreaming, strietching out his hands to catcli
any straw, trying to believe he might yet be saved. Could he
leave thein^hose two who had just left the door— to struggle
through thk tek of M by tbemsehres 1 Helen Was ju^t over
thii^ty, aiiidi^W datight^r ^eiiU>ly tWelve. It was a m&ture agd
for i^mMb^'i bat yet for a woman who has been proi^«d aad

j^^mwm

Mcep car^ of aQ ber life, how bitter a moment to bo left 9^^ 1
rfrrtbe m^omeiit when life is «;t it« IMJeit^ demancU ipopt^ IbelB
ipps^ wMj^j, Ap)d has as y^t given up nothing. Mtka Wi no
itraiping to teach her thajt hapmnesa was not her right She
ha4 folt it to be her ri^ty and her whole sonl rose up in rebel-
lion against any infringement ol that great necessity of being.
Sow was she to live when ftll was ti&en from JUpVt OT^n the
support of her husband's anni Bobert had never known 90
mudi of his wife's character before, but in this awful n^oment
it became clear to him as by an inspiration. How was she to
bear it I Credit, honour, mone^, living — and her husband, too,
who could still work for her, shield her. He went to his easel
and uncovered the half -finijied picture on it^ and gazed at it
witn something that was in reality a dumb apjpeal to the dumb
canvas tp help him. But it did not help mm. On the con-
trary, it brought suddenly up before him nis work of the past,
his miperfect successes, and Helen's kind, veiled, hidden, but
unconcealable dissatisfaction. The look of siqipressed pain in
her face, the subdued tone, the soft languid praise of some de-
tail or accessory, the very look of her figure when she turned
away from it, came all l>efore hiin. Her habit was, when she
turned away, to talk to him of other things. How clearly
that oft-repeated scene came before him in his despair ! She
was dutiful^ giving him her attention conscientiously as long as
was needful ; but when be fell back into the fond babble of
the maker, and tried to interest her in some bit of drapery, or
efiecti of light, or peculiarity of grouping, she would listen to
him swect^, and< — change the subject as soon as possible. It
f(U return^ to him— he remembered even the trivial little
words she had spoken^ the languid air of half fatigue which
would [copie oy^r her. That — Song with the meagrest pover-
iy, the ^dj^^jt I hon^ely struggles for daily bread. Could she
b6i^*tog9,;Di^ She would lose everythinK, the house

ai^aU thatjwi^ m,}tf everything that could becked hers, or
Bupposjsd j^ei^^ The only thing that could not be ta^n from
!|^^r would be l^er4100 a year, ner little fortune which was set-
tled on Ijier..^ "T^ey could live on tbat»" pQpr Brnmmond
.^^t on in ps jdreapy miserable thoughts, *'Tlfey could esqst,
j^t, is pojaciil^e, better without mk ^an wi^ w. , Would they
^happior to have m^ ^jffcia(>i^i^^^

ATTtlk «Atte.

toknowwat 6vi6i^ing #M-6iriBr, and thttt ait l^t their i^i^
twee would be thetnr, vaA their ^eaois Te8t|>eclfced 1 B\rerjrthmg
would be over. Nobody totAd hwe hny pttitett for anno jinjr
her about it. They Woidd be sorry for her— ^even they wotdd
be sorry for me. My polidM would 00 to make up somethmg
—to dear my name a little. And mey would let her alone;:;
She could ffo to the country. She is so simple in her real tastes.'
They could live on what she has, if they were only rid of me."
A sigh that was almost a sob interrupted him in his musi]^.'
He was so worn out ; and was it the grave-chill that was invad-
ing him already and making him shiver 1 He took the c^nvaS
on Uie easel and held it up to the light ** The drawir^iii
good enough,** he said to himself, '* it is not the drawing. She
always owns that It itH-something else. And how can t
tell after this that I could even draif 1 I could not now, tf t
were to try. My hand shakes like an old man's. I mightjfhli-
ill like podr Haldane, Ah, my Gk>d ! " The canvas fell out ^
Ids hands upon the floor-^ sudden spasm contracted his heart
Haldane I It was the first time that day that he had thought
of him. His ruin would be the rtiin of his friend tob-^is
friend who was helpless, sick, and yet the support of oth^M,
" Oh, my God, my God ! " he wailed with a cty of despair. ^'^^
And there ivas no one near to hear him, no one to defond
him from himself and from the devil, to lay hands upon Mm,
to bid him live and hope and w(»rk, and help them to exist whoii|^
he had helped to rtiin. HiB was left all alone ih that moment of
his agony. G^, to whom he had appealed,was beyond the eloudS^
beyond that which is more imfothomable than any cloud, the
serene, immeasurable, imp^etrable blue, and held out no hand^
sent no voice of cdinfort The man feU down where his work
had faUen, prone upon the ground, realizing in a moment all tiie
misery of tne vears that were to come, ^d it was his doing,
his doing ! — though conedously he would have given hims&
to be etit to pieces, would have toiled his life out, to make it up
now to his |N>or friend,*-^how much more to his wife 1 What
passed in his ndnd in that awfril interval is not to be told^ li
was the suprettie struggle iMtween life akid de8pair,and it was des-
pair that iron. "When he rose up, his face was like tlte face of
an old maD^ haggwd and tiamwid willi dsep liniik. He sfcogd

AT m» QA.TE&

stUl^ for a moment, loplqiiflrrQimd him yaguely, and i]um made
a little pilgppiage roqiid $e roppi, Ipokiog at ey^rj^Mtig* TT^^b
a mptiye, without a motire, who can tell 1 his whole iacultiea
absorbed in the exaltation, and bewiideiing» sombre excite^
ment of such a crisis as can come bat once to any man* Then
he sat down at his writing-table, and sought out some letter-
paper (there were so many scraps of drawing-paper that came
first to hand), and slowly wrote a few lines. He had to search
for a long time before he could find an envelope to enclose this,
and his time was getting short. At last he put it up, and,
after another pause, stole through the conservatory, walking
stealthily like a thief, and placed the white envelope on a little
crimson table, where it shone conspicuous to everybody who
should enter. He did more than that ; he went and bent over
the chair which Helen had pushed away when she rose from
it— thoichair she always sat on-r-and kissed ^t There was\^
little bright-coloured handkerchief lying on the sofa, which w^
Norah's. He took th^t up and kissed it too, and thrust it
into his breast Did he mean to carry it with him into the
dark; and silent country where he was going 1 (}od knows
what was the thought in his mind. The pretty dock on the
mantelpiece softly chimed the quarter as he did this, and he
started like a thief. Then he took an old great-coat from the
wall^ an old travelling hat, which hung beside it, and went back
to the studio. There, was no more time for thought.; He went
out, leaving the door unlocked, brushine stjeaTthily through
the lilac j» Tl:*" broad daylight played all around him, reveal*
ing him to every one, showing to the world how he, stole ainray
out of his own house. He had put up the collar of h^s coat,
and drawn his hat down over his brows to disguise himself in
case he met any one he knew^ Any one, he knew j It ^as in
case he met his wife, to whom he had just said farewell for
ever, and his child) whose little kerchief he was going to take
with him into this dismal ruin, into the, undiscovered world.
a., All this might have beeu changiBd h44 he jpii^t them .; and
^yf were crossing the next street comi^ghom^ Helen growiiig
inore and more anxious as they approach^ thiSj^obi'., a Had he
been going out about some ampl<^ eyeiydjsy huepess, of iSOi^jS^
thfsy would ;have, met ; hut.uojt iiow, wneii Wmigjht.hayets^y^
imM^ irom. destniiitijcm aftd,.«»otheri from Afm^fL Rq M

AT WJ» e^TE»,

9(6

watched for a moment to make sure they were not in sight be-
fore he went out ; and the servants had caught a glimpse of a
man whom they did not recognize hiding among the bushes,
and were frightened ; so, it turned out afterwards, had various
other passers-by. But I>mmmond saw no one — no one. The
multitudes in the noisier streets upon which he emereed after
a while, were nothing to him. They pushed against nikii, but
he did not see them ; the only two fi^fures he could have leen
were henceforward to be invisible to hmi for ever.

Forever! for ever! Was it for ever 1 Would this crime
he was about to commit, this last act of supreme rebellion
against the will of that Grod to whom he seemed to have
appealed in vain, would it sever him from them not only in
this world, but in the world to come 1 Should he have to
gaze upward, like poor Dives, and see, in the far serene above
him, these two walking in glory and splendour, who were no
longer his 1 perhaps surrounded by angels, stately figures of
the blessed, without a thought to spare in the midst of that
glory for the poor soul who perished for love of them. Could
that be true 9 Was it damnation as well as death he was go-
ing to face 1 Was it farewell for eVer, and ever, and ever)

So the awful strain ran on, buzzing in his ears, drowning
for him' the voices of the crowd — for ever, for ever, for ever.
Dives forlorn and far away — and up, up high in the heavens,
blazing above him, like a star

Like i^hat star in the soft sky of the evening which came
out first and shone down direct upon him in his wretchedness.
How it shone ! How she shone ! — was it she ? — as it erew
darker drawing a silver line for him upon the face of the dark-
ening water. Was that to be the spoti But it took years to
get dark that night. He lived and grew old while he was wait-
ing thus to die. At last there was gloom enough. He got a
boat, and rowed it out to that white glistening line, the line
that looked like a silver arrow, shining where the spot w as '

The boat drifted ashore that night as the tide felL In that
last aiot, at lea^t, ^aiture helped him to be honest, poor souLi ^

A'^ltib ikkTML

j Vya Tl"-'

^m aiffm m .trf^m'jcrfj? it

em %^Aumm

OHAPTEB XI.

HE itadib door is open, Tnamma," Mid liUle Nonh d«r-
dng in before her mother, through the lilae bashetf.
The words seemed to take a weight off Helen's
heirt< '-^i.^*- ' '-i

« *r^ pA|»a most have come in," she said, and ran np'the
steps to the aoor, whioh was opened before she could ImOok
by an anxious, half-frightened maid. "Mr. Dmmmond has
eome in t" she said, in her anxiety, hastening to pass Jone^ who
held &st by the door.

■■■** Nd, ma'am, please, ma'am ; but Rebecca and me see a mf^i
i^bout not five minutes ago, and I can't find master^s topcMt
ajs wais a>hangbig in the hall — ^Rebecca says, ma'am, as she
tlNMi^ht she se e "

< ^ Papa has not been home after all," Helen said to her little
daughter; ''perhaps Mr. Drummond wore his great^soat last
oig^t^ Jane. Never mind just now; he will t^ us when he
Gomeein."

«Bttt I "see the man, and Gborge was out, as he always is
when he's wanted. Me and Bebecca — " said Jane.
»nff; Never mind just now," said Helen languidly. She went
into the drawing-room with the load heavier than ever on her
heart. What could have kept him so long % What could be
making him so miserable 9 Oh, how orud, cruel it was not
to know ! She sat down with a heart like lead on that chair
iHiioh poor Robert had kissed — not fifteen minutes since, and
he W98 scarcely out of reach now.

"Ghy mamma," cried Norah, moving about with a child's
eiffioaty ; " here is a letter for you on the little red table. It
is so fhnn^, and blurred, and uneven. I can write better
than tha1>~look t isn't it Irom pvpt^ f

Helen had not paid much attention to what the\child said,
but now she started up and stretched out her hand. The name
on the outside was scarcely legible, it was blurred and uneven,
as Noiah said ;; and it was very cLsai to see^ oould only be a

AT HIS GATES.

message of woe. Bur her worst fears, miserable as she felt,
had not approached the very skirts of the misery that now
awaited her. She tore the envelope open, with her heart
beating loud in her ears, and her whole body tingling with
agitation. And this was what she read : —

" My Heubn, my own Helen,— I have nothing in the
world to do now but to bid you good-bye. I have ruinMl you,
and i^ore tha^ you. If I lived I should only be a disgrace
and a burden, and your little money that you have will support ,
you by yourself. Oh, my love, to think I should leave you '
like this ! I who haye loved you so. But I have never been
good enough for you. When you are an angel in heaven, if
you see me among the lost, oh, bestow a little pity upon me, my
Helen 1 I shall never see you again, but as Dives saw Lazarus.
Oh, my wife, my baby, my own, you will be mine no longer:
but have a ]ittle pity upon me ! Give me one look, Helen, out
of Heaven.

*'I am not mad, dear. I am doing it knowing it will be for
the best God forgive me if I take it upon me to know better
than Him. It is not presumption, and perhaps Ho may know
what I mean, though even you don't know. Oh my own, my.
darlings, iny only ones — good-bye, good-bye ! "

There was no name signed, no stops to make the sense plain.
It was written as wildly as it had been conceived ; and Helen,
in her terrible excitement, did not make out at JBrst what it
could mean. What could it mean 1 were was he going 1 The
words about Dives and Lazarus threw no light upon it at first.
He had gone away. She gave a cry, and dropped her l?.«^\ia
upon her lap, with the letter in them, and looked round her —
looked at her child, to make sure to herself that she was n6t
dreaming. Gone away! But where, where, and why this
parting 1 "I don't understand it — he has gone and left us,'*
she said feebly, when Norah, in her curiosity, came rushing to
her to know what it was. "I don't know what it means.
God, help us ! "she said with an outburst of miserable tears.
She was confused to the very centre of her being. Where had
he gone 1

" May I read it, mamma T* little NoTsh asked, with her arms
round her mother's neck. ^'"""^ ^"^' '»^^-

But Heien had the feeling that it was not fit for the child.
Qt

AT HIS GATES.

" Run and ask who brought it," she said, glad to be alone ;
and then read over again, with a mind slowly awakening to its
reality, that outburst of love and despair. The letter shook
in her hands, salt tears fell upon it as she read *' If I lived :—/
am doing itj knowing" God, God, what was it he had gone to
do 1 Just then she heard a noise in the studio, and starting to
her feet rushed to the conservatory door, crying, *' Robert l
Robert ! " She was met by Jane and Norah, coming from it ;
the child was carrying her father's hat in her arms, with a.
strange look of wonder and dismay on her face.

" Mamma, no one brought the letter," she said in a subdued,,
horror-struck tone ; ** and here is papa's hat — and the picture^
is lying dashed down on the floor with its face against tne car-
pet. It is all spoiled, mamma," sobbed little Norah — " papa's*
pictur«> ! and here is his hat. Oh, mamma, mamma ! "

Norah was frightened at her mother's face. She had grown
ghastly pale. '* Get me a cab," she said to the maid, whose
curiosity was profoundly excited. Then she sat down and took
her child in her arms. " Norah, my darling," she said, mak-
ing a pause between every two words, " something dreadful has
happened, I don't know what. I must go — and see. I must
go — and find him — O my God, where am I to go t *^

" And me, too," said the child, clinging to her fast ; " me too
-^let us go to the City, mamma ! "

" Not you, Norah. It will soon be your bed-time. Oh, my
pet, go and kneel down and pray — pray for poor papa."

" 1 can pray just as well in the cab," said Norah. " God
hears all the same. I am nearly twelve — I am almost grown
up. You shall not — shall not go without me. I will never
move nor say a word. I will run up and get your cloak and
mine« We'll easily find him. He never would have the heart,
tp go far away from you and me."

*'tle never would have the heart," Helen murmnred the-
■words over a,ft^r her. ** Surely not. Surely, surely he would
not h^ye the heart ! Hiis resolution would fail. How cbuld he go
and leave the twowhom he loved best— the two whom alone he
loved in, this world." * Run tUeft, dear, and get yo^r cloak,"
she said faintly. The child seemed a kiod of anchor to her,
h(>lding her to something, to some grasp of solid earths They
dirove off itt 9» f"ew minutes^ Norak holding fsat ber mother's

▲T HIS OATB&

hftnd. They overtook, if they had bat known it^ and paisted
in the cro\rd, the despairing man they sought ; and he with
his dim eyes saw the cab driving past, and wondered eveii who
was in it—- some other sufferer, in the madness of exoiteiuent
or despair. How was he to know it was his wife and child t
They drove to the City, but found no one there. They went
to his club, to one friend's house after another, to the picture-
dealers, to the railway stations. There, two or three bystand-
ers had seen such a man, and he had gone to Brighton, to Soot-
land, to Paris, they said. Ooming home, they drove over the
very bridge where he had been standing waiting for the dark.
It was dark by that time, and Helen's eye caught the line of
light on the water, with that intuitive wish so common to a
painter's wife, that Robert had seen it Ah, ^ood Lord ! he
bad seen and more than seen. The summer night was quite
dark when they got home. Those gleams of stanight were lost
in clouds, and all was gloom about the pretty house. Instead
of the usual kindly gleam from the windows, nothing was visi-
ble as they drew up to the door but the light of a single candle
which showed its solitary flame through the bare. window of
the dining-room. No blind was drawn, or curtain closed, and
like the taper of a watcher shone this little miserable light. It
chilled Helen in her profound discouragement and fatigue, and
yet it gave her a forlorn hope that perhaps he had come.
Norah had fallen fast asleep leaning against her. It was all
she could do to wake the child as they approached the
door; and Jane came out to open the gate with a scared
&ce. " No, ma'am, master's never been back," she an-
swered to Helen's eager question; ''but Dr. Maurice, he's
here."

Mrs. Drummond put Norah into the woman's arms, and
rushed into the house. Br. Maurice met her with a face al-
most as white as her own, and took her hands compassionately.
** You have heard -from him f What have have you heard)
Where is he 1 " said poor Helen.

** Hush, hush ! " he said, *' perhaps it is not so bad as it ap-
pears. I don't understand it. Rest a little, and I will show
you what he has written to me."

" I cannot rest," she said ; " how can I rest when Bobert
— -^ Let me see it. Let me see it I am sure to undw^

too

▲T HIB ^JITBI.

atMid whit ha meani. H« rie>v«r liad any veerats beftii^e. X^^
flkow it me^^show it me ! — am wot I his wife 1 " < '

/* Poor \#ife, poor wife ! " said the compassiotiate doctor, and
then he put her into an easjr-chair, and went and a»ked for
•ome wine^ '*I will show it you only when you have dranlc*
this," heMiid; <*only when you haire heard what I have toi'
say.: Driunmond is very impulsive, you know. He might not
do really as he said, A hundred thin^ would oome in to stop
him when he had time to think. His heart has been broken
by this bank business ; but when hid felt thatdt waai uhdenitood)
W Was not to blame— ——*' ■ I/i.f! •)/( murlv/ o^^lthii yTv/

h^'Oive me; your letter," she said, holding' bat' her hand to
hinu She was capable of no more.

'<He Woiild sodn find that ouC said the doctor. << Who
could possibly blame Atm7 My dear Mrs. Drummond, you
mulst take this into acooiiiit. Ybu must not f^VB him up ai
once. I have set on foot all sorts of inquiries—-^"
i,^*;The letter, the letter I " she said hoarsely, holding out her
hiind* ^ ' '■■ ■'■■>• T-'uiy vii.' 'i.i !■ .*i

He was pUiged to yield to her 'at hail but not without thv
ooBscioustiess which comforted him that she had heard a grealb
deal of what he had to say. She had not listened voluntarily 'i
but still sh^ had not been able to keep herself from hearing.
This w(M not much comfort to poor Helen, but it was to him/
He had made her swallow the wine too ; he had done his best*
for her ; and now he could but stand by mournfully while she
read her sentence, the words which might be death.-

** Mftuiice, I want you to go to my wife. Before you get
this, or at loast before you have got to her, I shall be de«dr
It's a curious thing to say, but it's true. There has been a
great orash at the bank, and I akn. ruined and all I care for. If
I lived I could do no good^ only harm ; but they will be sorry
for her if X die. I h&ve written to her, poor darling, to teU
her ; but. I want you to goaiid stand by her. She'll want sotne
one ; and kiss the child for me;: If they pnd me, bury me afay-
where. I hope theyi will atever find me, thou^, £pr Helen's
sake. And poor.Haldane, 'Tell him I ktiew nothibg of its
nothing, nothing! I would have died sooner than let them
rfisk his nH^ney.^ . : Qq«1 ^help )iis, anid God forgiyeimn I Maurice,
you* are a good Mlow ^ be kind ito oaiiy poor* wife.") ' ' -

AT HfiS OATUL

101

. Then was a poiitoeript ^hicli nobody read or paid any atten*
tioii to: that it to lay, they read it, and it died from their
Binds lor the moaa^nt as if it meant nothing. It waa thii,
irritten obliquely like an after*thonght- *

** TKibanktuas ruined from the first ; there vhu nevtr 6 MofiM
for its, I found thii out only toJay» BwrUm and Oolden han/i
doneitaUr f "

These were the words that Helen read, with Dr. Maurlov
standing mournfully behind watching her eyery movement
She kept staring at the letter for a long time, and then fell
back with a hysterical sob. But without any relief in tears.
Dr. Maurice stood by her as his friend had asked him. He
soothed her, addins every possible reason he could think of
(none of which he himself believed in the smallest desree) to
show that "poor Drummond" mieht change his mind. Thia
was written in the first impulse of despair, but when he cane
to thin k Helen did not listen ; but she heard what Dr*

Maurice said vaguely, and she heard his account of what he
had done ; he had given information at once to the police ; he
had engaged people everywhere to search and watch. Newi
would be heard of him to-morrow certainly, if not to-night.'
Ilelen rose while he was speaking. She collected herself and
restrained herself, exerting all the strength she possessed.
" Will you comei with me 1 " she said.

" Where I where IMrs. Drummond, I entreat yon to believe

Ibave done everything "

: ' '' Oh, I am sure of it 1 " she said faintly ; but I must go. I
cannot---^annot rest. I must go somewhere— anywhere —
where he may have gone——"

" But Mrs. Drummond "

■ ) j(ii II

"You are going to say I have bden everjrwhera So we
have, Norah and I — she fell asleep at last, poor child — she does
not need me--I must go — — •" - ■

. i" It is getting late," he said ; it is just ten ; if news were to
come you would not like to be out of the way. Stay here and
rest, and I will go to-morrow; you will want all ymt
strength." ; j.

. .^' Iwaht it alltiow^" she said with a strange smile. ** Who
think* of to-morrow \ , it may never, never coma It may--^
You Aue very kind-tbut. I eaiinot rest "if.' i i /

102

AT HIS QJlTBB,

She was in the cab again before he could say another word.
But fortunately at that moment one of his messengers came m
hot haste to say that they thought they had found some trace
of " the gentleman." He had come off to bring the news, and
probably by this time the others were on their way bringing
him home. This intelligence furnished Maurice with a weapon
against Helen. She allowed herself to be led into the house
again, not believing it, feeling in her heart that her husband
would never be brought back, yet unable to resist the reason^
able conclusion that she must stay to receive him. The short
summe." darkness passed over her thus ; the awful dawn came
and looked her in the face. One of the maids sat up, or rather
dozed in her chair in the kitchen, keeping a fire alight in case
anything might be wanted. And Helen sat and listened to
every sound ; sat at the window gazing out, hearing carriage
wheels and footsteps miles off, as it seemed to her, and now
and then almost deceived into hope by the sound of some one
returning from a dance or late party. How strange it seemed
to her that life should be going on in its ordinary routine, and
people enjoying themselves, while she sat thus frozen into des-
peration, listening for him who would never come again ! Her
mind was wandering after him through every dreadful scene ;
and yet it was so difficult, so impossible to associate Iiim with
anything terrible. He, always so reasonable, 8o tender of
others, so free from selfish folly. The waking of the new day
stole upon the watcher before she was aware ; those sounds
which are so awful in their power, which show how long it is
since last night, how life has gone on, casting aside old bur-
dens, taking on new ones. It was just about ten o'clock, when
the morning was at its busiest outside, and Helen, refusing to
acknowledge the needs of the new day, still sat at the window
watching, with eyes that were dry and hot and bloodshot, with
the room all in mournful disorder round her, when Dr.
Maurice's brougham drew up to the door He sprang out of it,
carrying a coat on his arm ; a rough fellow in a blue Jersey
and sailor's hat followed him. Maurice came in with that look
so different from the look of anxiety, that fatal air, subdued
and still and certain, which comes only from knowledge.
Whatever might have happened he was in doubt no more.

Helen's long vigil had worn her into that extremity of emo-

AT HIS GATES.

10.1

tion which can no longer avail itself of ordinary signs. She had
not even risen to meet the news. She held out her hand
feebly, and gave him a piteous look of inquiry, which her dry
lips refused to sound. She looked as if it were possible that
she had grown into an idiot as she sat there. He came for-
ward and took her hand in his.

" Dear Mrs. Drummond," he said, " you will need all your
courage ; you must not give way j you must think of your
child."

" I know," she said ; her hand dropped out of his as if by its
mere weight. She bowed her head as if to let this great salt
hitter wave go over her — bowed it down till it sank upon her
lap hidden in her clasped hands. There was nothing to be
said further, not a word was necessary. She knew.

And yet there was a story to tell. It was told to her very
gently, and she had to listen to it, with her face hidden in her
hands. She shuddered now and then as she listened. Some-
times a long convulsive sob escaped her, and shook her whole
frame ; but she was far beyond the ordinary reli«^f of weeping.
It was poor Robert's coat which Dr. Maurice had brought with,
him, making all further doubt impossible. The gentlemen
had thrown it off when he took that boat at Chelsea. It
was too warm, he said ; " and sure enough it was mortal
warm," the man added who had come to verify the mournful
story. The gentlemen had taken a skiff for a row. It was a
clear, beautiful night, and he had been warned to keep out of
the way of steamers and barges. If any harm came to him,
the boatman said, it was not from want of knowing how to
manage a boat. The little skiff had drifted in bottom up, and
had been found that morning a mile down stream. That was
all. Jane, who was the housemaid, went away crying, and
drew down all the blinds except that of the room where her
mistress was. " Surely missis will have the thought to do
that," she said. But poor Helen had not the thought.

And thus it all came to an end — their love, their prosperity,
and that mitigated human happiness which they had enjoyed
together — happiness not too perfect, and yet hovir sweet!
Norah still slept through the bright morning, neglected by ^;jer
usual attendant, and tired out by her unusual exertions on the
previous night. " She ought to know," the' maids said to each

\r^

104

At Hts Qxrtss.

other, with that eagerness to make evil tidings known which
is so strangely common ; hut the old nurse, who loved the child,
would not have her disturbed. It was only when Helen re-
jected all their entreaties to lie down and rest that Martin
consented to rouse the little girl. She came down, with her
bright hair all about her shoulders, wrapped in a little white
dressing-gown, flying with noiseless bare feet down the stair-
case, and, without a word of warning, threw herself upon her
mother. It was not to console her mother, but to seek her
own natural refuge in this uncom prebend ed calamity. " Oh,
mamma ! " said Norah ; " oh, mamma, mamma ! " She could
find no other words of consolation. Torrents of youthful tears
gushed from the child's eyes. She wept for both, while Helen
sat tearless. And the blinds were not down nor the shutters
closf»d in that room, as the servants recollected with horror,
and the great golden light of morn shone in. *

Thus tiiey were left undisturbed in the full day, in the swfeet
sunshine ; scarcely knowing, in the first stupor of misery, how
it was that darkness had gathered in the midst of all their world
of light.

AT HIS OATSa

105

CHAPTER XIL

nTji-TELEN had not remarlied that postscript toherhuck
JjJTjL band's letter, but Dr. Maurice had done so, to whom it
was addressed ; and while she was hiding her head and
bearing the first agony of her grief without thought of anything
remainingthat she might yet have to bear, many thingsbadbeen
going on in the world outside of which Helen knew nothing.
Dr. Maurice had been Bobert's true friend; and after that
mournful morning a day and night had passed in which he
did not know how to take comfort. He had no way of ex-
pressing himself as women have. He could not weep ; it even
seemed to him that to close out the cheerful light, as he "Was
tempted t^ do (for the sight of all that brightness made his
heart sick), would have been an ostentation of sorrow, a show
of sentiment he had no right to indulge in. He could not
weep, but there was something else he could do ; and that was
to sift poor Robert's accusation, if there was any truth in it ;
and, if there was, pursue — to he could not tell what end — the
murderers of his friend. It is the old savage way ; and Dr.
Maurice set his teeth, and found a certain relief in the thought.
He lay down on the sofa in his library, and ordered his servant
to close his doors to all the world, and tried to snatch a little
sleep after the watch of the previous night. But sleep would
not come to him. The library was a large, lofty room, well
furnished, and full with books. It was red curtained, and car-
peted, and the little bit of the wall which was not covered with
book-cases was red too, red which looked dark and heavy in
the May sunshine, but was very cosy in winter days. The one
spot of brightness in the room was a picture of poor Druni-
mond's — a young picture, one of those which he was painting
while he courted Helen, the work of youth and love, at a time
when the talent in him was called promise, and that which it
promised was genius. This little picture caught the doctor's
eye as he lay on his sofa, resting the weary frame which had
known no rest all night. A tear came as he looked at it — a

106

AT fits QA.t^.

tear which flowed back again to its fountain, not being pef'
mitted to fall, but which did him good all the same. *' Poor
fellow ! he never did better than that/' Dr. Maurice said to
himself with a sigh ; and then he closed up his ejes tight, and
tried to go to sleep. Half an hour after, when he opened them
again, the picture was once more the first thing he saw. "Bet-
ter ! " he said, " he never did so well. And killed by those in-
fernal curs ! " The doctor took himself off his sofa after this
failure. It was of no use trying to sleep. He gathered his
boots from the comer into which he had hurled them, and drew
them on again. He thought he would go and have a walk.
And then he remarked for the first time that though he had
taken his coat off, the rest of his dress was the same as he had
put on last night to go out to dinner. When he went to his
room to change this, the sight of himself in the glass was a
wonder to him. Was that red-eyed, dishevelled man, with
glittering studs in his shirt, and a head heavy with watching
and grief — was that the trim and irreproachable Dr. Maurice 1
He gave a grin of horror and fierce mockery at himself, and
then sat down in his easy-chair, and hid his face in his hands ;
and thus, all contorted and doubled up, went to sleep unawares.
He was good for nothing that day.

The next morning, before he could go out, Mr Burton call-
ed upon him. He was the man whom Dr. Maurice most
wanted to see. Yet he felt himself jump as he was announc-
ed, and knew that in spite of himself his countenance had
changed. Mr- Burton came in undisturbed in manner or ap-
pearance, but. with a broad black hatband on his hat — a band
which his hatter had assured him was much broader than he
had any occasion for — "deep enough for a brother." This
gave him a certain air of solemnity, as it came in in front of
him. It was " a mark of respect," which Dr Maurice had not
thought of showing; and Maurice, after poor Haldane, was, as
it were, Robert's next friend.

" I have come to speak to you about poor Drummond," said
Mr. Burton, taking a chair. " What a terrible business this
has been ! I met with him accidentally that morning-rthe very
day it happened. I do not know when I have had such a
shock 1 "

" You met him on the day he took his life 1"

AT HIS OATEa

107

" The day he — died. Dr. Maurice. I am bis relative, his
wife's nearest friend. Why should we speak so ? Let us not
be the people to judge him. He died — God k lows how. It
is in God's hands."

" God knows I don't judge him," said Dr. Maurice ; and there
was a pause.

'* I cannot hear that any one saw him later/' said Mr. Bur-
ton. *' I hear from the servants at St. Mary's Road that he
was not there. He talked very wildly poor fellow. I almost
thought — God forgive me ! — ^that he had been drinking. It
must have been temporary insanity. It is a kind of consola-
tion to reflect upon that now.'*

The doctor said nothing. He rustled his papers about, and
played impatiently with the pens and paper-cutter on his tabla
He bore it all until his visitor heaved a demonstrative sigh.
That he could not bear.

" If you thought he spoke wildly, you might have looked af-
ter him a little," he said. " It was enough to make any man
look wild ; and you who knew so well all about it "

" That is the very thing. I did not know about it. I had
been out of town, and had heard nothing. A concern I was
so much interested in — by which I am myself a lose r "

'' Do you lose much ?" said Dr. Maurice, looking him in the
face. It was the same question poor Robert had asked, and it
produced the same results. An uneasy flush came on the rich
man's countenance.

" We City men do not publish our losses," he said. " We
prefer to keep the amount of them, when we can, to ourselves.
You were in yourself, I believel Ah ! I warned poor Drum-
mond ! I told him he knew nothing of business. He should
have taken the advice of men who knew. How strange that
an ignorant, inexperienced man, quite unaware what he was
doing, should be able to ruin such a vast concern I "

"Rain such a vast concern ! " Dr. Maurice repeated, stupe-
fied. " Who 1 — Drummond 1 This is a serious moment and a
strangely chosen subject for a jest. I can't suppose that you
take me for a fool "

" We have all been fools, letting him play with edge tools,"
said Mr. Barton, almDst sharply," " Golden tells me he would
never take advice. Golden says "

t08

XT ms oATca

r << OokleB ! irhere is he i" cried Maui^: << TbeleUo^who
absconded 1 By Jove, tell me but where, to lay my bandftoa

" Softly/' said Mr. Burton putting his hand otai Maurice's
arm, with an air of soothing him which made the "doctor's
blood boiL " Softly, doctor. He is to be found where he al-
ways was, at the office, making the best he can of< a terribly
bad job, looking fifteen years older, poor fellow. Where are
you going I Let me have my ten minutes first ! " ; jost
. i "1 am going to get hold of him, the swindler ! " cried Mau-
rice, ringing the bell furiously. " John let the brougham be
brought round directly. My God ! if I was not the most mod-
erate man in existence I should say murderer too. Golden says,

forsooth ! We shall see what he will say before a jury- -"

. " My dear Dr. Maurice-r- listen a little — take care what you
are doing. Golden is as honourable a man as you or I-i — -"

" Speak for yourself,'' said the doctor roughly. ** He has ab-
sconded — that's the word. It was in the papers yesterday
morning ; and it was the answer I myself received at the office.
Golden, indeed ! If you're a friend of Drummond's you will
come with me and give that fellow into custody. This is no
time for courtesy." ^irn ihnnu <

')(} " How glad I ain I came ! " said Mr Burton. " You have
tiot seeii, then^ what is in the papers to-day? Dr. Maurice,
you miist listen to me ; this is simply madness. Gblden, poor
fellow, has been very nearly made the victim of his^ own un-
suspicious charactiari Don't be impatient, but listen. When
1 tell you he was simply absent on Tuesday on his own affairs
-**^gone doYfn to tiie country, as I might have been myself, if
Ebt^ s^as r* as I sometimes think, sent out of the way. The
news of Shenkenj's bankruptcy arrived that mornuig. Well, I
don't mean to say Drummond could have helped t^t ; but he
seized the opportunity. Heaven knows how sorry I am to
suggest such a thing ; it has nearly broken Goldenfs heart.
But these are the facts ; what can you make of them ) > Maurice,
listen to me. What did he go and do that tor t He. Was still
a young man ; he had his profession. If he could have faced
the worid, why did he do that? " ; , ;

.1 Dti Mauirice replied with an oath. I ican make^no ^quSe
for him. He stood on his own hearth, with his haxid clenched,

AT HIS OlfTEB/

llOOi

add bh»{^heiiied. T|iei« arei mom^nUia wfakli » nmn nHnii'lBi-
ther dd tbat^ or go down VLpon hi» knee^ and appeal to Goc^i
who nowaday^ sends no lightning from heaven to kill the slay-^.
er of men's souls where he stands. The doctor isaw itall as if
byagteamof that same lightning which he invoked in vain.
He saw the spider's web they had woven, the way of escape
for themselves which they had built over the body of the man
who was dead, and could uot say a word in reply. : But his
friend could not find a word to say. Scom^ rage, stupefaction, -
came upon him. It was so false, so incredible in its falsity^
He could no more have defended Robert from such an accusaM
tioa than he would have defended himself from the charge- of
having murdered him. But it would be believed: the world
did not know any better. He could not say another word^-i^-siick
a horrorand disgust came over him, such a sickening sense of the
power of falsehood, the feebleness manifest of nnprovable truth.
" This is not a becoming way in which to treat such a sab*
ject," said Mr. Burton, rising too. "No subj ect could be iaibre
painful to me. I feel almost as if, indirectly^ I myself was to
blame. It was I who introduced him into the concern. I am
a busy man, and I have a great deal on my hands^ but could I
have foreseen what was preparing for Rivers'Sj my own inter-t
est should have gone to the wall. And that' he should be my
own relation too — my cousin's husband 1 Ah, poor Helen, what
a mistake she madel'' .muK)

"Have you nearly done, sirl" said the doctor fiercely., /e^^
^'1 shall have done at once, if what I say is received with in-
civility," said Mr. Burton, with spirit. It wa^ to,prev«it any
extension of the scandal that I came here." .nftjfi^fiotd yiil
ii^" There are some occasions upon which civility is impossibte,"
said Maurice. " I happen to know Robert Drummond ; which
Ihope you don't, for ^our own sake. And, remember, a great
many people know hiin besides me. I mean no incivility when
I say that I don't believe one word of this, Mr. Burton; and
that is all I have to say about it Not onei word— — " H

/;»<* Ydu mean I lie!" ;;

n'*m 'h'

" I mean nothing- of the sort. I hope you are deceived. I
mean that this fellow Golden is an atrocioiis scoundrel, and he
lie&, If you will And having said that, I have not anothet'
word to aay,"

110

AT BIS GATES.

iili!^

: ill!

Then they both stopped short, looking, at each other. A
momentary doubt was, perhaps, in Barton's mind what to say
next — whether to pursue the subject or to let it drop. But no
doubt was in Maurice's. Ho stood rigid, with his back to the
vacant fire place, retired withi i himself. " It is very warm,"
he said ; " not favourable weather for walking. Oin I set you
down anywhere 1 I see my brougham has come round."

"Thanks," said the other shortly. And then he added,
"Dr. Maurice, you have taken things in a manner very different
from what T expected. I thought you would take an interest
in saving our poor friend's memory as far as we can — *'

"I take no interest in it, sir, whatever."
I'HVAnd the feelings of his widow," said Mr. Burton. " Well,
well, very well Friendship is such a wide word — sometimes
meaning so much, sometimes so little. I suppose I must do
the best I can for poor Helen by myself, and in my pwn
way."

"rhe obdurate doctor bowed. He held fast by his formula.
He had not another word to say.

. " 111 that case I need not trouble you any longer," said Mr.
Burton. But when he was on his way to the door he paused
and turned round. " She is not likely to be reading the
papers just now," he said, " and I hope I may depend on you
not to let these unfortunate particulars, or anything about it,
come to the ears of Mrs. Druuimond. I should like her to be
saved that if possible. She will have enough to be.ar."

" I shall not tell Mrs. Drummond," said the doctor. And
then the door opened and closed, and the visitor was gone.

The brougham stood before Dr. Maurice's window for a long
time that morning. The old coachman grumbled broiling on
the box , the horses grumbled, pawing with restless feet, and
switching the flies off with more and ifiore impatient swing-
ings of their tails. John grumbled indoors, who could not
"set things straight" until his master was out of the way.
But the doctor neglected them all Not one of all the four,
horses or men, would have changed places with him could they
have seen him poring over the newspaper, which he had not
cared to look at that morning, with the wrinkles drawn
together on his forehead. There was fury in his soul, that
indignation beyond words^ beyond self command, with whidi

AT UIS GATES.

Ill

a man perceives the rise and growth of a wrong whieh is be-
yond his setting right — a lie which he can only ineffectively
contradict, struggle, or rage against, but cannot drive out of
the minds of men. They had it in their own hands to say
what they would. Dr. Maurice knew that during all the past
winter his friend had been drawn into the work of the bank.
He had even cautioned Robert, though in ignorance of the
extent of his danger. He had said, ** Don't forget that you
are unaccustomed to the excitements of business. They will
hurt you, though they don't touch the others. It is not your
trade." These words came back to his mind with the bitterest
sense of that absence of foresight which is common to man.
*'If I had but known ! " he said. And then he remembered,
with a bitter smile, his visit to Dr. firadcliffe, his request ta
him to see poor Drummond *' accidentally," his dread for his
friend's brain. This it was which had affected poor Robert^
worse than disease, worse than madness ; for in madness or
disease there would have been no human agency to blame.

The papers, as Burton had said, were full of thie exciting *
story. Outside in the very streets there were groat placards
up with headings in immense capitals, " Great Bankruptcy in
the City. — Suicide of a Bank Director" The absconding of the
manager, which had been the news the day before, was thrown
into the background by this new fact, which was so much more
tragical and important, ^' The latest information" was given
by some in a Second Edition, so widespread was the commotion
produced by the catastrophe ; and even those of the public who
did not care much for Rivers's, care<i for the exciting tale, oi^
for the fate of vthe unhappy professional man who had rashly
involved himself in business, and ruined not only himself, but
so many more. The story was so dramatically complete that
public opinion decided upon it at once. It did not eveu want
the grieved, indignant letter which Mr. Golden, injured man^
wrote to the TimeSt begging that the report against him
should be contradicted. This letter was printed in large type,
and its tone was admiral)le. "I will not prejudge any man;
more especially one whose premature end has thrown a cloud
of horror over the untbrtunate business transactions of the bank
with which I have had the honour of being connected^ for
fifteeu years," Mr, Golden wiote, "but I canoot perout my

112

AT HIS GATES.

temporary, innocent and much-regretted abeenco to be con-
strued into an evidence that I had deserted my post With
the help of Providence, I will never desert it, so lon^ as I can
entertain the hope of saving from the wreck a shilUng of the
shareholders' money." It was a very good letter, very credit-
able to Mr. Golden ; and every body had read it and accepted
it M gospel* before Dr. Maurice got his hand upon it In the
Daily Semaphore^ which the doctor did not see, there was' already
an article on the subject, very eloquent and slightly discursive,
insisting strongly upon the wickedness and folly of men who
without capital, or even knowledge of business, thus ventured
to play Fith the very existence of thousands of people. '^ Could
the unfortunate man who has hidden his shame in a watery
grave look up this morning from that turbid bed and see the
many homes which he has filled with desolation, who can
doubt that the worst and deepest hell fabled by the great
Italiati poet would lose something of its intensity in cdm-
parison l^—the ineffectual fires would pale ; a deeper and a
moi% terrible doom would be that of looking on at all the
misery — all the ruined households and broken hearts which
cry out to-day over all England for justice on their destroyer."
Fortunately Dr. Maurice did not read this article ; but he did
read the Times and its editorial comments. *^ There can be
little doubt," that journal said, "that the accidental absence of
Mr. Golden, the manager, whose letter explaining all the
circumstances will be found in another column, determined
Drummond to his final movement. It left him time to secure
the falsified books, and remove all evidence of his guilt It is
not for us to oxplain by what caprice of despair, after taking
all this trouble, the uohappy man should have been driven to
self-destruction. The workings of a mind in such an unnatural
condition are too mysterious to be discussed here. Perhaps
he felt that when all was done, death was the only complete
exemption from those penalties which follow the evil-doer on
this earth. We can only record the fact; we capnot explain
the cause. The manager and the remaining diiectors, hastily
summoned to meet the emergency, have been labouring ever
^ce, we understaiid, with the help da well-know accountant,
to make up the accounts of the company, as well as that can
be doee in the absence of the books which theie is every reason

At His OAtlSH.

113

to 8U]^po8(9 were abstracted by Druininond before he left the
office. It has been suggested that the river should be dragged
for them as well as for the body of the unhappy man, which
up to this time has not been recovered. But we doubt much
whether, even should such a work be successful, the books
would be legible after an immersion even of two or three days.
We believe that no one. even the persons most concerned, are
yet able to form an estimate of the number of persons to whom
this lamentable occurrence will be ruin."

Dr. Maurice put down the paper with a gleam in his face of
that awful and heartrending rage which indignation is apt to
rise into when it feels itself most impotent. What could he do
to stop such a slander) He could contradict it ; he could say,
"I knew Robert Drummond ; hf* ^its utterly incapable of
this baseness." Alas ! who was he that the world should take
his word for it? He might bring a counter charge against
Golden ; he might accuse him of abstracting the books and
being the author of all the mischief; but what proof had he to
substantiate his accusation 1 He had no evidence — not a
hair's-breadth. He could not prove, though he believed, that
this was all a scheme suggested to the plotters, if there were
more than- one, or to Golden himself, if he were alone in his
villany, by the unlooked for chance of Drummond's suicide.
This was what he believed. All the more for the horrible
vraisemblanct of the story, could he see the steps by which it
had been put together. Golden had absconded, taking with
him every thing that was damning in the way of books. He
had lain hidden somewhere near at hand waiting an oppor-
tunity to get away. He had heard of poor Drummond's death,
and an opportunity of a different kind, a devilish yet brilliantly
successful way of escape had suddenly appeared for him. AU
this burst upon Dr. Maurice as by a revelation while he sat
with those papers before him gnawing his nails and clutching
the leading journal as if it had been Golden's throat. He saw
it all. It came out before him like a design in phosphorus,
twinkling and glowing through the darkness. He was sure of
it ; but; — what to do 1

This man had a touch in him of the antique friendship — the
bond for which men have encountered all odds and dared death,
and been happy in their sacrifice. But even disinterested-

I !

"''Ml'

''I In

,11:!

114

AT HIS GATES.

ne88, even devotion do not giye a man the mental power to
meet such foes, or to frame a plan bv which to bring them to
confusion. He grew himself contused with the thou^t.
He could not make out what to do first — how he should beffin.
He had forgotten how the hours went — ^what time of the day
it was while he pondered these subjects. The fire in his veins,
instead of acting as a simple stimulant, acted upon him like in*
tozication. His brain reeled under the pressure. " Will you
have lunch, sir, before you go out ? said John, with restrained
wrath, but a pretence of stateliness, "Lunch ! — how dare you
come into my room, sir, before I ring 1" cried his master,
waking up and looking at him with what seemed to John
murderous eyes. - And then he sprang up, tore the papers into
little pieces, crammed them into the fire-place, and, seizing his
hat, rushed out to the carriage. The coachman was nodding
softly on the box. The heat, and the stillness, and the
monotony had triumphed even over the propriety of a man
who knew all London, he was fond of saying, as well as he
knew his own hands. The coachman almost dropped from his
box when Maurice, throwing the door of the little carriage
open, startled him suddenly from his slumber. The horses,
which were half asleep too, woke also with much jarring of
harness and prancing of hoof and head.

" To the Times office," wns what the doctor said. He could
not go and clutch that villain by the throat, though that might
be the best way. It was another kind of lion which he was
about to beard in his den.

I < 1

i\\l:h.]i;:n

^ ,aia ati'nfa.

i,y/ ahl ill' 'f'inl <>>J

CHAPTER XIH.

ONE of the persons chiefly concerned in this histoiT', ^^'
cept himself, knew as yet whether Reginald Burton
was good or had. But one thing is certain, that there
were good intentions in his mind when he startled Dr. Maurice
with this extraordinary tale. He had a very husy morning,
driving from place to place in his hansom, giving up so many
hours of his day without much complaint. He had expected
Maurice to know what the papeis would have told him, had he
been less overwhelmed with the event itself of which they gave
so strange a version, and he had intended to have a friendly
consultation with him about Mrs. Drummond's' means of living
and what was to be done for her. Something must be done
for her, there was no doubt about that. She could not be al-
lowed to starve. She was his own cousin, once Helen Burton ;
and, no doubt, by this time she had found out her great mis-
take. It must not be supposed that this thought brought with
it any lingering fondness of recollection, any touch of the old
love with which he himself had. once looked upon her. It
would have been highly improper had it done anjrthing of the
kind. He had a Mrs. Burton of his own, who of course pos-
sessed his entire affections, and he was not a man to indulge
in any illegimate emotion. But still he had been thinking
much of Helen since this bewildering event occurred*' It was
an event which had taken him quite by surprise. He did no^
understand it. He felt that he himself could never be in such
despair, could never take " a step so rash " — the only step a
man could take which left no room for repentance. It had
been providential, no doubt, for some things. But Helen had
been in his mind since ever he had time to think. There was
a little glitter in his eye, a little complacent curl about the
corners of his mouth, as he thought of her, and her destitute
condition, and her helplessness. What a mistake she had
made ! She h^ chosen ti wretchJed painter, withou* a penny,
instead of himself. And this was wniat it had come to. Now

i«smimsm^3gmmifimmmmmmi!^0imm

mmfjm'^

116

AT m& OATiB*

at least she must have found out what ft fool she had heeil*
But yet he intended to be good to her in his way. He vowed
to himself, with perhaps some secret compunction in the depths
of his heart, that if she would let him he would be very good
to her. Nor was Helen the only person to whom he intended
to be good. He went to the Haldanes as well, with kindest
sympathy and offers of help. ** Perhaps you inay think I was
to blame in recommending such an investment of yoiir money?"
he said to Stephen, with that blunt honesty which charms so
many people. *' But my first thought, was of you when I heard
of the crash. I wish I had bitten my tongue out sooner than
recommended it The first people who came into my head
were my cousin Helen and you."

Dismay and trouble were in the Haldanes' little house.
They had not recovered from the shock. They were like three
ghosts — each endeavouring to hide the blackness from each other
which bad fallen upon their souls. Miss Jane and her mdither,
hovirever, had begun to get a little relief in talking over the
great misery which had fallen upon them. They had filled the
room with newspapers, in which they devoured every scrap of
^ news which bore on that one subject. They sat apart in a
* corner and read them to each other, while Stephen closed his
poor sad eyes and withdrew into himself. It was the only re^
tirement he had, his only way of escape from the monotonous
details of their family life, and the constant presence of his
nurses and attendants. This man had such attendants — un-
wearying, uncomplaining, always ready whatever he wanted,
giving up their lives to his service — as few men have ; and yet
there were moments when he would have given the world to
be free of them^ — now and then, for half and hour, to be able
to be alone. He had been sitting thus in his oratory, his place
of retirement, having shut his doors, and gone into his chamber by
tjiat single action of closing his eyes, when Mr. Burton came
in. The women had been reading those papers to him till he
had called to them to stop. They had made his heart sore, as
our hearts are being made sore now by tales of wrong and
misery which we cannot help, cannot stop, can do nothing but
weep for, or listen to with hearts that burn and bleed. Ste-
phen Haldane's heart was so-^it was sore, quivering with the
Stroke it has sustained, feeling as if it would burst out of his

AT HIS GATES.

117

breast People say that much invoked and described organ is
good only for tough physical uses, and knows no sentimAut i
but surely such people have never had a sore heart.

Poor Stephen's heart was sore : he could feel the great
wound in it through which the life-blood stole. Yesterday he
had been stupefied. To-day he had begun to wonder why, if a
sacrifice was needed, it should not have been him 'I He who
was good for nothing, a burden on the earth ; and not Robert,

the kindest, truest- . God bless him ! yes, God bless him

down yonder at the bottom of the river, down with Dives in a
deeper depth if that might be — anywhere, everywhere, even in
hell or purgatory, God bless him ! this is what his friend said,
not afraid. And the women in the comer, in the meanwhile,
read all the details, every one — about the dragging of the
river, about the missing books, about Mr. Golden, who had
been so wronged. Mrs. Haldane believed it everv word, hav-
ing a dread of human nature and a great confidence in the
newspapers ; but Miss Jane was tormented with an independ-
ent opinion, and hesitated and could not believe. It had al-
most distracted their attention from the fact which there could
be no question about, which all knew for certain — their own
ruin. Rivers's had stopped payment, whoever was in faulty
and everything this family had— their capital, their income,
everything was gone. It had stunned them all the first day,
but now they were beeinnipg to call together their forces and
live again ; and when Mr. Burton made the little sympathetic
speech above recorded it went to their hearts.

" I am sure it is very kind, very kind of you to say so," said
Mrs. Haldane. " We never thought of blaming— ^you."

" I don't go so far as that," said Miss Jane. ** I always
speak my mind. I blame everybody, mother ; one for one
thing, one for another. There is nobody that has taken thought
for Stephen, not one. Stephen ought to have been considered,
and that he was not able to move about and see to things for
himself like other men."

" It is very true, it is very true I" said Mr. Burton, sighinff.
He shook his head, and he made a little movement of his hand,
as if deprecating blame. He held up his hat with the mourn-
ing band upon it, and looked as if he might have wept. " When
you consider all that has happened," he said in a low tone of

«■

118

AT HIS GATES.

.'!•

Upolb^. ''Some who have been in fadlt liavei paid for it
dearly, at least — — " r

It was Stephen's voice which broke in upon this apology, in a
tone as different as could be imagined — high-pitehed, almost
harsh. When he was the popular minister of Ormond Street
Chapel it was one of the standing remarks made by his people
tb strangers, ''Has not he a beautiful voice?'* But at this
moment all the tunefulness and softness had gone' out of it.
" Mr. Burton," he said, " what do you mean to do to vindicate
Drummond 1 It seems to me that that comes first."

" To vindicate Drummond!" Mr. Burton looked up with a
sudden start, and then he added hurriedly, with an impetuosity
which secured the two women to his side, " Haldane, you are
too good for this world. Don't let us speskk of Drummond. I
will forgive him — if I can."

"How much have you to forgive him 1" said the preacher.
Onde more, how much % By this time Mn Burton felt that he
had a right to be angry with the question. ^

" How much 1" he said ; "really I don't feel it necessaiy to
go into my own business affairs with everybody who has a
Curiosity to know. I am willing to allow that my losses are as
nothing to yours. Pray don't let us go into this question, for
I don't want to lose my temper. I came to offer any assistance
that was in my power — ^to you."

" Oh, Mr. Burton, Stephen is infatuated about that miserable
man," said the mother; "he cannot see harm in him; and
ev6D now, when he has taken his own life and proved himself
to be "

" Stepheil has a right to stand up for his friend," said Miss
Jane. " If I had time I would stand up for him too ; but
Stephen's comfort has to be thought of first. Mr. Burtdn, the
best assistance you could give us would be to get me something
to do. I can't be a governess, and needlework does not pay ;
neither does teaching, for that matter, even if I could do it. I
am a good housekeeper, though I say it. I can keep accounts
with anybody. I am not a bad cook even. And I'm past
foi-ty, and never was pretty in my life, so that I don't see it
matters whether I am a woman or a man. I don^'t care what I
do or where I go, so long as I can earn some money. Can you
h^lp taie to that ) Don't groan, Stephen ; do you think I mind

AT HIS QATES.

119

it 1 and don't you smile, Mr. Burton. I am in earnest for my
part."

Stephen had groaned in his helplessness. Mr. Burton smilod
in his superiority, in his amused politeness of contempt for the
plain woman past forty. " We can*t let you say that," he an-
swered jocosely, with a look at her which reminded Miss Jane
that she was a woman after all, and filled her with suppressed
fury. But what did such covert insult matter 1 It did not
harm her; and the man who sneered at her homeliness might
help her to work for her brother, which was the actual matter
ia hand.

" It is very difficult to know of such situations for ladies,"
said Mr. Burton, " if anything should turn up, of course — but
I fear it would n«t do to depend upon that."

" Stephen has his pension from the chapel," said Miss Jane.
She was not delicate about these items, but stated her case
loudly and plainly, without even considering what Stephen's
feelings might be. " It was to last five years, and nearly three
of them are gone ; and he has fifty pounds a year for the maga-
zine — ^that is not much, Mr. Burton, for all the trouble ; they
might increase that. And mother and I are trying to let the
house furnished, which would always be somethmg. We could
remove into lodgings, and if nothing more is to be got, of course
we must do upon what we have."

Here Mr. Burton cast a look upon the invalid who was sur-
rounded by so many cootrivances of comfort. It was a compas-
sionate glance, but it stung poor Stephen. ^' Don't think of
me," he said hoarsely ; " my wants, though I look such a bur^
den upon everybody, are not many after all Doh't think of
me."

" We could do with what we have," Miss Jane went on — she
was so practical, she rodo over her brother's susceptibilities and
ignored theoi, which perhaps was the best thing that could have
been done- -" if you could help us with a tenant for our house,
Mr. Burton, or get the magazine committee to give him a little
more than fifty pounds. The work it is ! what with writing
—and I am sure he writes half of it himself — and reading
those odious manuscripts which ruin his eyes, and correcting
proofs, and all that. It is a shame that he has only fifty
pounds——"

'•'*'^:'»'!=^mmmm;mmmmmmmmtimim%mmem^m$mtM»m-:

AT HIS GATES.

'^But he need not take so much trouble unless he likes,
Jane/' said Mrs. Haldane, shaking her head, ** I liked it as it
was.'

" Never mind, mother ; Stephen knows best, and it is him
that we have got to consider. Now, Mr. Burton, here is what
you can do for us — I should not have asked anything, but since
you have offered, I suppose you mean it— something for me to
do, or some one to take the house, or a little more money for
the magazine. Then we could do. I don't like anything that
is vague. I suppose you prefer that I should tell you plain 1 "

" To be sure," said Mr. Burton ; and he smiled, lookine at
her with that mixture of contemptuous amusement and diSike
with which a plain middle-aged woman so often inspires a vul-
gar-minded man. That the women who wanted to work are
always old hags, was one of the articles of his creed ; and
here was an illustration. Miss Jane troubled herself very little
about his amusement or his contempt She did not much \be«
lieve in his good-will. But if he did mean it, why, it was
best to take advantage of his offer. This was her practical
view of the subject Mr. Burton turned from her to Stephen,
who had taken no part in the talk. Necessity had taught to
the sick man its stern philosophy. He had to listen to such
discussions twenty times a day, and he had stc'eled his heart to
hear them, and make no sign.

"What would you say to life in the country?" he said.
"The little help I came to offer in these sad ciicumstances is
not in any of the ways Miss Jane suggests. I dcTn't know
anybody that wants to take just this kind of house :" and he
glanced round at it with a smile. He to know a possible
tenant for such a nutshell ! " And I don't know any situation
that would suit your sister, though I am sure she would be in-
valuable. My father-in-law is the man to speak about the mag-
azine business. Possibly he could manage that. But what I
would offer you if you like, would be a lodging in the country.
J have a house down at Dura, which is of no use to me. There
\s good air and a garden, and ^11 that You are as welcome as
possible if you like to come."

"A house in the country," said Mrs. Haldane. ■ <^0h my
boy ! Oh, Mr. Burton ! he might get well there."

Poor soul ! it was her delusion that Stephen was to get nirel},

AT HIS OATES.

121

She took up this new hope with eyes which, old as they were,
flashed out with brightness aud consolation. "Whit will all
our losses matter if Stephen gets well 1" she went on begin-
ning to cry. And Miss Jane rose up hastily, and went away
with a tremulous harshness, shutting her lips up tight, to the
other side of the room, to get her work, which she had been
neglecting. Miss Jane was like a man in this, that she could
not bear tears. She set her face against them, holding herself
in, lest she too might have been tempted to join. Of all the
subjects of discussion in this world, Stephen's recovery was the
€ *ily one she could not bear ; for she loved her brother like a
poet, like a starved and frozen woman who has had but one love
in her life.

The old mother was more manageable to Mr. Burton's mind
than Miss Jane. Her tears and gratitude restored him to what
he felt was his proper place, — that of a benefactor and guardian
angel. He sat for half an hour longer, and told Mrs. Haldane
all about the favour he was willing to confer. ** It is close to
the gates of my own house, but you must not think that will
be an annoyance to us," he said. " On the contrary, I don't
mean to tell my father-in-law till he sees you there. It will be
a pleasant surprise for him. He has always taken so much in-
terest in Haldane. Don't say anything, I beg. I am very glad
you should have it, and I hope it will make you feel this diead-
ful calamity less. Ah yes ; it is wretched for us ; but what
must it be for my poor cousin ? I am going to see her now."

" I don't know her," said Mrs. Haldane. " She has called
at the door to ask for Stephen, very regular. That I suppose

was because of the friendship between but I have only

seen her once or twice on a formal call If all is true that I
hear, she w411 take it hard, being a proud woman. Oh ! pride's
sinful at the best of times ; but in a time like this "

" Mother 1"

" Yes, Stephen, I know ; and I am sure I would not for the
world say a word against friends of yours ; but "

" I must go now," said Mr. Burton, rising. " Good bye, Hal-
dane. I will write to you about the house, and when you can
come in. On second thoughts, I will not prevent you from
mentioning it to Mr. Baldwin, if you please. He is sure to
mk what you are going to do, and he will be glad to know."

122

AT HIS GATES.

II! i

He went out from Victoria Villas pleased with himself. He
had been very good to these people, who really were-nothingto
him. He was not even a Dissenter, hnt a staunch Churchman,
and had no sympathy for the sick minister. What was his mo-
tive, then 1 Lut it was his wife who made it her business to
investigate his motives, and we may wait for the result of her
examination. All this was easy enough. The kindness he had
offered was one which would cost him little, and he had not
suffered in this interview as he had done in that which pre-
ceded it. But now he had occasion for all his strength ; now
came the tug of war, the real strain. He was going to see
Helen. She had been but three days a widow, and no doubt
would be in the depth of that darkness which is the recognized
accompaniment of grief. Would she see him 1 Could she have
seen the papers, or heard any echo of their news 1 On this
point he was nervous. Before he went to St. Mary's Boad,
though it was close at hand, he went to the nearest hotel, ^d
had a glass of wine and a biscuit For such a visit he required
all his strength.

But these precautions were unnecessary. The shutters were
all closed in St. Mary's Eoad. The lilacs were waving their
plumy fragrant branches over a door which no one entered.
Mrs. Drummond was at home, but saw no one. Even when
the maid carried his message to her, the answer was that she
could see no one, that she was quite well, and required noth-
ing/ "Not even the clergyman, sir," said the maid. "He's
been, but she would not see him. She is as white as my apron,
and her poor hands you could see the light through 'em. We
all think as she'll die too."

" Does she read the papers V said Mr. Burton anxiously. He
was relieved when the woman said " No." He gave«her half-a-
crown, and bade her admit none to the house till he came
again. Bebecca promised and curtsied, and went back to the
kitchen to finish reading that article in the Daily Semaphore,
The fact that it was "master" who was there called " this un-
fortunate man " and "this unhappy wretch," gave the strongest
zest to it. " La ! to think he could have had all that on hir
mind," they said to each other. George was the oiily one who
considered it might be a " made-up story," and he was believed
to say so more from " contrariness," and a desire to set up for

AT HIS GATES.

128

superiot wisdom, than because he had any real doubt on the
gubject. " A person may say a thing, but I never heard of one
yet as would go for to put it in print, if it wasn't true," was
Rebecca's comment. " I'm sorry tor poor master, all the same,"
said Jane the house-maid, who was tender-hearted, and who
had put on an old black gown of her own accord. The 8e»
vants were not to get mourning, which was something unheard
of ; and they had m received notice, and, as soon as Aurs. Drum-
mond was able to move, were to go away.

For that matter, Helen was able to move then — able to go
to the end of the earth, as she felt with a certain horror of
herself. It is so natural to suppose that physical weakness
should come in the train of grief ; but often it does not, and
the elastic delicate strength of Helen's frame resisted all the in-
fluences of her sorrow. She scarcely ate at all ; she slept little;
the world had grown to her one great sea of darkness and pain
and desolation : and yet she could not lie down and die as she
had thought she would, but felt such a current of feverish
energy in all her veins as she had never felt before. She could
have done anything — ^laboured, travelled, worked with her
hands, fought even, not like a man, but like twenty men. She
was conscious of this, and it grieved and horrified her. She
felt as a woman brought up in conventional proprieties would
naturally feel, that her health ought to have been affected, that
her strength should have failed her. But it had not done so.
Her grief inflamed her rather, and set her heart on fire. Even
now, in these early days, when custom decreed that she ought
to be incapable of exertion, " keeping her bed," she felt her-
self in possession of a very flood of energy and excited strength.
She was miserable, but she was not weak. She shut herself
up in the darkened house all day, but half the night would
walk about in her garden, in her despair, trying to tame down
the wild life which had come with calamity. Poor little Norah
crept about everywhere after her, and lay watching with great
wide-open eyes, through the silvery half-darkness of the sum-
mer night, till she should come to bed. But Norah was not
old enough to understand her mother, and was herself half
frightened by this extraordinary change in her, which affected
the child's imagination more than the simple disappearance of
her father did, though she wept and longed for him with a

y'*-^:^sm>imm^m^m»'rA'ksi-mtwmimmt^^M^--

124

▲T HIS GATES.

dreary sense tliat unless ho came back, life never oouldbe as of
old, and that he -would never, never come back. But all the
day long Mrs. Drummond sat in her darkened room, and "ivas
not able to see any one." She endured the vigil, and would
have done so, if she had d*ed of it. That was what was called
'^proper respect :" it was the conventional necessity of the mo-
ment Mr. Burton called again and again, but it was more than
a fortnight before he was admitted. And iu the meantime he
too had certain preparations to go through.

; ! i

▲T HIS GATES.

125

CHAPTER XrV.

EK. BUKTON was a man who was accustomed in his
own house to have, in a great degree, his oWn way ;
but this was not because his wife was disinclined to
hold, or incapable of forming an opinion of her own. On the
contrary, it was because he was rather afraid of her than other-
wise and thought twice before he promulgated any sentiments
or started any plan which was likely to be in opposition to
hers. But he had neither consulted her, nor, indeed, thought
much of what she would say in the sudden proposal he had
made to the Haldanes. He was not a hasty man ; but Dr.
Maurice's indignation had made an impression upon him,
and he had felt all at once that in going to the Haldanes and
to Helen, he must not, if he would preserve his own character,
go with merely empty sympathy, but must show practically his
pity for them. It was perhaps the only time in his life that he
had acted upon a hasty idea without taking time to consider ;
and a chill doubt, as to what Clara would say, was in his mind
as he turned his face homewards. Dura was about twenty miles
from town, in the hf^arb of one of the leafiest of English coun-
ties ; the station was a mile and a half from the great house,
half of which distance, however was avenue ; and Mr. Burton^s
phaeton, with tiie two greys — horses which matched to a hair,
and were not equalled in the stables of any potentate in the
county — was waiting for him when the train arrived. He
liked to drive home in this glorious way, rousing the village
folks and acting as a timepiece for them, just as he liked the
great dinner-bell, which the old Harcourts sounded only on
great occasions, to be rung every day, letting the whole neigh-
bourhood know that their local lord, their superior, the master
of the great house, was going to dinner. He liked the thought
that his return was an event in the place almost justifying the
erection of a standard, as it was erected in a royal castle not
very far off, when the sovereign went and came. Oar rich man
had not gout^ su far as yet, but he would have liked it, and felt

▲T BtS aitud.

qUili^BI

1 Hi

1 ill

! I !

fSl'iii

■ ■'!'!

it natural The village of Dura was like a collection of beads
threaded on the long white thread of road which ran from the
station to the house — and occupied the greater part of the space,
with single houses straggling at either end, and a cluster in the
middla The straggling houses at the end next the station were
white villas, built for people whose business was in town, and
who came home to dinner bv the same train which brought Mr.
Burton, though their arrivtu was less imposing ; but where the
dump, of dwemng-places thickened, the houses toned down into
old-fashioned deeply-lichened brick, with here 'and there a
thatched roof to deepen, or a whitewashed gable to relieve, the
composition. At the end nearest the great house the village
made a respectful pause, and turned ofif along a slanting pat^,
which showed the tower of the church behind over the trees.
The rectory, however, a prettv house buried in shrubberies,
fronted the high road with modest confidence ; and opposite it
was another dwelling-place, in front of which Mr. Burton drej^
up his horses for a moment, inspecting it with a careful ^d
anxious eye. His heart beiat a little quicker as he looked.
Bin own gate was in sight, and these were the very grounds of
Dura House, into which the large walled garden of this one
: intruded Uke a sciuare wedjfe. In front there were no shrabberie,,
no garden, nothing to divide it from the road. A double row of
pollard limes — one on the edge of the foot-path, one clv>««e to the
houser-indieated and shaded, but did not separate it from the
common way. The second row of limes was level with the fence
of the Dura grounds, and one row of white flagstones lay
between them and the two white steps, the green door, the
shining brass. knocker, of the Gatehouse^ It was a house which
had been built in the reign of the firsib George, of red brick,
with a great many windows, three-storied, and crowned by a
pediment, with that curious mixture of the useful and
(supposed) ornamental, which by this time has com^ to look
almost picturesque by reason of age. It had been built for the
mother of one of the old Harcourts, a good woman who had
been bom the Eector's daughter of the place, and loved it and
its vicinity, and the sight of its comings and goings. This was
the origin of the Gatehouse; but since the days of Mrs.
punstable Harcourt it had rarely been inhabited by anjjr of tb^e
iamily, and. had been a trouble more than an advantage to theij^ ,

AT Bis OATES.

1 '7

It was too near the hall to be inhabited by fetrangers, m \
people do not always like to establish their own poor relations
and dependents at their very gates. As the Harcourts dwindled
and money became important to them» they let it at a small
rate to a maiden housenold, two or three old ladies of limited
means and blood as blue as their own. And when Dura ceased,
except on county maps, to be Harcourt-Dura, and passed into
the hands of the rich merchant, he, too, found the Gatehouse a
nuisance. There had been talk of pulling it down, but that
would have been waste ; and there had been attempts made to
let it to " a suitable tenant," but no suitable tenaat had been
found. Genteel old ladies of blue blood had not found the
vicinity of the Burtons a comfort to them as they did that of
the Harcourts. And there it stood empty, echoing, void, a

Elace where the homeless might be sheltered. Did Mr. Burton's
eart glow with benevolent warmth as he paused, drawing up
his greys, and looked at it, with all its windows twinkling in
the sun ? To one of these windows a woman came forward at
the sound of his pause, and, putting her face close to the small
pane, looked out at him wondering. He gave her a nod, and
sighed ; and then flourished his whip, and the greys flew on.
In another moment they had turned into the avenue and went
dashing up the gentle ascent. It was a pretty avenue, though
the trees were not so old as most of the Dura trees. The sun-
set gleamed through it, slanting down nnder the lowest
branches, scattering the*brown mossy undergrowth with lun^ps
of gold. A little pleasant tricksy wind shook the branches and
shook little mimic showers of rain in the master's face : for it
had been raining in the afternoon, and the air was fresh and
full of a hundred nameless odours ; but Mr. Burton gave forth
another big sigh before he reached the house. He was a little
afraid of what his wife would say, and he was afraid of what
he had done.

He did not say anything about it, however, till dinner was
over. The most propitious moment seemed that gentle hour of
dessert, when the inner man is strengthened and comforted, and
there is time to dally over the poetic part of the meal — not that
either of the Burtons were poetical. They were alone, not even
the children being with them, for Mrs. Burton disapproved
of children coming to dessert ; but all the same, sh^ was

■'*'•«'■ '■«^f«?***^«a»s»«iisBfti»i(ws^

AT HIS OATIiS.

Mill If- y

beautifully dressed ; he liked it, and so did she. She made
very little difference in this particular between her most
imposing dinner parties and those evenings she spent Ute a iete
with her husband. When her aunts, who had old-fashioned
ideas about extravagance, remonstrated with her, she defended
herself, saying she could afford it, and he liked to see her well
dressed. Mr. Burton hated to have any scrap of capi al
unemployed ; and the only interest you could get from your

i'ewels was the pleasure of wearing them, and seeing them worn,
le said. So Mrs. Burton dined with her husband in a costume
which a French lady of fashion would have considered appro-
priate to a ball or royal reception, with naked shoulders and
arms, and lace and ornaments, Madame la Duchesse might
have thought it much too fine, but Mrs. Burton did not. She
was a pale little woman, small and thin, but not without beauty.
Her hair was not very abundant, but it was exquisitely smooth
and neat. Her uncovered shoulders were white, and her arms
round and well-formed ; and she had clear blue eyes, so much
brighter than anybody expected, that they took the world by
surprise : they were cold in their expression, but they were full
of intelligence, and a hundred times more vivid and striking
than anything else about her, so that everybody observed and
admired Mrs. Burton's eyes.

" What has been going on to-day 1 What have you been
doing r she asked, when the servants went away. The
question sounded affectionate, and showed at least that there
was confidence between husband and wife.

" Very much as usual," Mr. Burton said, with colloquial ease ;
and then .he stopped and cleared his throat. " But fur my own
part I have done something rather foolish," he said, with an
almost imperceptible tremor in his voice.

" Indeed 1" IShe gave a quick glance up at him j but she
was not excited, and went on eating her strawberries. He was
not the kind of man of whoso foolitsh actions a wife is afraid.

" I have been to see the Haldaues to-day," he said, once
more clearing his throat ; " and I have been to Helen
Drummond's, but did not see her. The one of course, T did

out of regard for your father ; the other 1 was so distressed

by the sight of that poor fellow in his helplessness, that I acted
on impulse, Clara. I know it's a foolish thing to do. I said

AT HIS 0ATE8.

129

:ii

to myself, here are two femilies cast out of house and home^ and
there is the Gatehouse "

" The Gatehouse I"

'' Yes, I was afraid you would be startled ; but reflect a
moment : it is of no use to us. We have got nobody to occupy
it, You know, indeed, how alarmed you were when your
aunt Louisa took a fancy to it ; and I have tried for a tenant in
vain. Then, on the other hand, one cannot but be sorry for
these poor people. Helen is my cousin ; she has no nearer
friend than I am. And your father is so much interested in
the Haldanes "

" I don't quite understand," said Mrs. Burton, with undis-
turbed composure ; " my father's interest in the Haldanes has
nothing to do with the Gatehouse. Are they to live there 1"

** That was what I thought," said her husband, " but not,
of course, if you have any serious dislike to it — not if you
decidedly object "

" Why should I decidedly object 1" she said. " I should if

you were bringing them to live with me ; but otherwise

It is not at all suitable — they will not be happy there. It will
be a great nuisance to us. As it is, strangers admire it — it looks
old-fashioned and pleasant ;but if they made a squalid place of
it, dirty windows, and cooking all over the house "

" So far as my cousin is concerned, you have nothing of that
kind to fear," said Mr. Burton, ceasing to be apologetic. Be
put a slight emphasis on the word my ; perhaps upon this point
he would not have been sorry to provoke his wife, but Clara
Burton would not gratify her husband by any show of jealousy.
She was not jealous, she was thinking solely uf appearances,
and of the possible decadence of the Gatehouse.

" Besides Susan must stay," he continued, after a pause ;
** she must remain in charge ; the house must be kept as it ought
to be. If that is your only objection, Clara-

I have made no objection at all," said Mrs. Burton ; and
then she broke into a dry little laugh. " What a curious
establishment it will be — an old broken down nurserymaid, a
Dissenting minister, and your cousin ! Mr. Burton, will she like
it t I cannot say I should feel proiid if it were offered to

His face flushed a little, He was not anxious himself to
I

"fmf

"■wpwinmitfiiw

"W*fW«^

13a

▲T HIS QAmS^

spwce Helen's f^^ngo. If he had found a;Q opportunityv ii^
would have been agreeable to him to remind her that sheli^j
made a mistake; but she was his own rel^Ubion, and, ipsti^ct'
prompted him to protect her from his wife, r ; /,V ,^. / .,

V Helen is too poor to allow herself to tiblnk whether she^
likes it or not," he said. v-u

j^is wifegav^ a sh^^ip ^^anee at him across the table, tVjiatT'
did he n^ean, $ JDid he , ^nt-end to be kind, or to insult the^
desjolate )i7pm^p 1 ' Clara askej herself the ^vle^tio^. fMS .a
philosopliical question, not;becau8e f he car^d. vj J. f ^ ^ jju' j. jj ,♦

" And is your cousin willing to accept it from you, aifer< —
that stpry I" she said,

" V^atB(tory ? ; Yovi mean about her.husband^ It is^not
my sto^, : I h^ye nothing to do with it ; and even if 1 ^adi
surely it is. the, m;^ that does wrong, not the man who teilslt^
th|a^ should have th^ blame; ; besides, she dpes not know.*' ,

*• Ah, that is the safest," said Clara. " !• think it is a viry
strange story^ Mr.: Burton. It may be true, but it is not Ixki^
thetrutb."

f'lhave nothing iio do with it," he exclaimed. He spoke hotly
wjtt a swelling of the veins on his temples, "There are points,
of vijBw in which his death was very providential," he saii

And Once more Clara gave him a sharp glance. ,-,,.

"It was the ai^gel who watch^Js over Mr. G-otlen tliftt:
provided th^ boat, no doubt," she answered^ with a contraction:
of her lips ; then fell back into the former topic with perfect,
calm, "I should insist upon tht^ house being kept clean and.
ni^e," she said as w rose to go away,. H:., ^ r j . , ., , ,.

,** Surely— ^urelyj^ and you may t,eil your fatter wheii. you
write, that poor Haldane is so far provided for." He got, up to
open thjB door for her, aud detaining her for a moment, stooped
d9wu and kisiSed her foreheads " I am so much obliged to you
Clara, for consenting so kindly," he saidi
i ^. faifft little cold smile came upon her face. She had been
hi^ wife for a do*en years ; but in her heart she was contempp
tuous of, the k^ which he gave her, as if she hacl been a child',
a^ a rewatd.for her a^cquiescence. it is to be supposed Uiat she
l^yed.hinsL aiW^, her fashion. She had marned hiin/of her owu;
free wili^ and had never quarreled with him once'in all'their
marri^ ^^«v ,?fe^t J^et Jj;^^h§ k^9^^^

V receiv€Mi,

▲T HIS GATES..

lai

the sting would have penetrated even throagh the tough
covciring which protected Reginald Barton* a amour proj^re^ if not
his heart Mrs. Burton went away into the great drawing-room,
wh^fe her children, dressed like little princes in a comedy ,, were
waiting for her. The Harcpurts, in. the old days, had mide a
mtich smaller room their family centre ; hut the Burtons always
used thereat drawing-room, and lived, as it were, in state
from one year's end to another. Here Olara Burton dwelt — a
little anonymous spirit, known to none even of her nearest
friends. They were all puzzled by her '* ways,** and by the
blank many-sided suiface like a prism which she presented to
them, refusing to be induenced by any. She did not know any
more about herself thau the others did. Outside she was all,
glitter and splendou^ ; liobody dressed so well, nobody had
such jewels, or &uch carriage^, or such horses in all the county.
She used every day, and in her homeliest moments, things which
even princes reserve for their best. Mrs. Burton made it a
boast that she had b'ob^st tilings ; she was the same always,
herself — ^and not her gUests or anything apart from herself—
being the centreof life in her house and in all her arrangements.
The dinner which the husband and wife had just eaten had
been as varied and as dainty, as if twenty people had sat dowp,
to it. It was her principle throughout her life. And yet within
herself the woman car^d for none of these things. Another
woman's dress or jeweb was nothing to her. She was totally
indifferent to the external advantages which every body else
believed her to be absorbed in. Clara was very worldly, her
aunts said, holding up their hands aghast at her extrav^ance-
and costly habits ; but the fact was, that Clara made all her,
splendours common, not out of love for them, but contempt for
them : a thing which nobody suspected. It is only a oynicaX
soul that could feel thus, and Mrs. Burton's cynicism went very
deep, ^ne thought nleanly of human nature, and did not
believe much in eoodness ^ but she seldom disapproved, and
never condemned. She would smile and cast about in her mind
(unawares) for the motive of any doubtful action, and generally
ended by finding out that it was " very natural," a sentence
which procured her credit |qr large toleration and a most
amiable disposition, but , Which sprang really from the cynical
charact^i (if h^r iiiindl' tt didiiot seem to her worth whUe W

Id2 At HIS GATES.

censtiM or to hendamze. She did not oeueye m reformaitliQ!! ;
and incredulity ^as in her the tmn-brother of despair; bajb not
a tragical despair. She took it all very calpuly, not fueling that
it wai i^Orth while to be disturbed by it ; t^nd went on unccn-
sciously tracking out the mean motives, the ppor pretensions,
the veiled selfishness of all around her. And she was not ^y^^rej
that she herself was any better, nor did she claim superiority
—nay, she Would even track her own impi^lses |;>,a^k to their
root, and smile at them, though with a certain bitterness. But
all this wad so properly cloaked over that nobody suspected it.
People gave her credit for wisdom beci^us6 she generally;
beliieved the worst, and was so very often right ; and they
though^ her tolerant because she would take pains to show how ,
it WJEus nature that was in fault, and not the culprit. I^o one^
suspected the terrible little cynic, pitiless ^d l^opeless t^t she
was in her heart.

And yet this woman was the mother of childr^^i* and lia<l
taught them their prayers, and was capal)1e at that or any other ;
moment of giving herself to be torn in pieces for them, as a;
matter of course, a thing which would not admit the possibility
of doubt. She had thought of that in her many thinkings,
had attempted to analyse her own love, and to fathom how
ifiudh it was capable of. " As much as a tiger or a bear would do
for het cubs,'^ she had said to herself with her usual smile. Thei
strangest woman to sit veiled by Reginald Burton's fireside^ and;
take the head of his table, and go to church with him in the
richest, daintiest garments which money and skill could get for
her ! She was herself to Some degree behind the scenes of her
own nature ; but she could not always discriminate, down
among the foundations of her being, which was fali^^ and whict^

was true. ^ • M^v;ii^V' )■'■*■''''■ ^"^V'

She went into the drawing-room, where her litUe Clara and

Ned were waiting, Ned was thirteen, a year older than Norah,

Drummond. Mr. Burton had determined that he would not

be behind the cousin ^ho refused him, nor allow her to suppose

that he was pinine for her love, so that his marriage had taken

place earlier than Helen's. Ned was a big boy, very active, and

not given to book learning ; but Clara, who was a year younger,

walk a meditative creature like her mother. The boy was stand*

ing outside the open window, throwing stones at the birds in

AXmt GATES.

13S

tlie dlstfint trees. Little Clara stood, witliin ifatchiDg him, and
makitig her colhrnynts on the spori

" Suppose you were to kill a poor little hird. Suppose one
of the youiig oned— one of the bahy ones — were to try and fly
a little bit, and you were to hit it. Suppose the poor papa
when he comes home-- — " ^ i

** Oh, that's enough of your supposes/' said ihe big boy»
Suppose I W6re to eat j^ / Bijt,^ do^^^ra^ti ^. ^^ I ^^
think you would be nice. . ri . . j ,

;^*Ned !" said a voice from behind Clara, which thrilled him
tiirough and through, and made the stones fall from his hands
as if they had beeh suddenly paralyzed, and were unable to
grasp anything. "I know it is natural to boys to be cruel,
but I had rather not have it under my own eyes."

" Cruel !" cried Ned, with some discontent. "A parcel of
wretched sparrows and things that can't sing a note. They
have no business in our trees. They ought to know what they
would get."

"Are boys always cruel, mammal" said little Clara, laying
hold upon her mother's dress. She was like a little princess
herself, all lace and embroidery and blue ribbons and beautiful-
ness. Mrs Burton made no answer, She did not even wait
to see that her boy took no more shots at the birds. She drew
a chair close to the window, and sat down ; and as she took
her seat she gave vent to a little fretful sigh. She was think-
ing of Helen, and was annoyed that she had actually no means
of judging what were the motives that would move her should
she come to Dura. It was difficult for her to understand
simple ignorance and unsuspiciousness, or to give them their
proper place among the springs of human action. Her worst
fault philosophically was that of ignoring these commonest
influences of aU.

" Mamma you are thinking of something," said little Clara.
" Why do you sigh, and why do you shake your head V*

'*I have been trying to put together a puzzle," said her
mother, ** as you do sometimes; and I can't make it out."

** Ah, a puzzle," said Ned, coming in ; " they are not at all
fun, mamma. That beastly dissected map Aunt Louisa gave
me — by Jove ! I should like to take the little pieces and
shy them at the birds."

if aid

I never saw you playing with toyis." , -

"I Wonder if 1 ever did 1" said Mrs. "Burton, with aU^tl^
gleam df surprise. ** Do ypu remember going to London pnp^,
Clara, and seeing your cousin Norah Drummond 1 Should jQjf.
like to have her here 1 " " She was littler than rae," said Clara

Erornptly, " though she was older. Papa told n^e.' They
Ved ih a f untty little poky house. They had no carriages iipr
anything. Sho had never even tried to ride ; flpiincy, mamma 1
Whieh i told her I had a pony all to myself, she onl^ ^if^<^^
How difierfint she would think it if s le 6ame here !** 7; •,' ^..
H^r mother looked at the child with a curious Ugtxt in her
^old bliie igyes. She gave a little harsh laugh. < i

'* If it were not that it is natural, and you cannot help it/' 1
dhould like to whip you, my dear !" ; • ; ,-

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185

: M t /•.

cAawM XV.

I , I

EXT morning the fanjily at Dura paid a visit to the
Gatehouse, to see all its capabilities, and arrange the
changes ivhich might be necessary. It was a bright
morning after the rain, and they walked together down
the deWy aveiitie, where the sunshine played through the net-
work of leaves, and the refreshed earth sent up sweet odour^.
All was pleasant to sight and sound, and made a lightsome
beginning to the working day. Mr. Burton was pleased with
himsfelf atid everything suiTounding him. His children (he
was very proud of his children) stroUed along with their father
and mother, and there was in Ned a precocious imitation of
his own walk and way of holding himself which at once amused
and fl ittered the genij,l papa. He was pleased by his bQy*8
appreciation of his own charins of manner and appearance;
and little Clara was like him, outwardly, at least, being of a
larger mould than her mother. His influence was physibally
predominant in the family, and as for profounder influences
these Were not much visible as yet. Mrs. Burton had a toilette
fraiche of the costliest simplicity. Two or three dogs attended
them on their walk — a handsome pointer and a wonderful
hairy Sky0, and the tiniest of little Maltese terriers, with a blue
ribbon round its neck stich as Clara had, of whose colours h^r
dog was a repetitii^n. When she ixiade a rush now atid th^n
along the road, herself like a greau white and blue butterfly,
the dogs ran too, throwing up their hoses in the air, till Ned,
marching along in his knickerbockers, with his chest sdb out,
aiid his head held up like his father's, whistled the bigger ones
to his masculine side. It was quite a pretty picture this
family procession ; they were so well oflf, so perfectly supplied
with everything that was pleasant and suitable, so happily abov©
the world ana its neqessities. There was a look of wealth
about theni that might Umost have seemed insolent to a pooi^
ilian. Th^ spectator felt sure that if fricasseed bank-tiotes had
beciii good to ^t, they must have had a little didli b^thktfor

id6

▲T HtS GATES.

! iPM'!

breakfast. And the crown of all was that they were going to
do a good action — to give shelter and heip to the homeless.
Many simple persons would have wept over the spectacle, had
they known it, out of pure delight in so much goodness — if
Mrs. Burton, looking on with those clear cold blue eyes of hers,
had not thrown upon the matter something of a clearer

The inspection was satisfactory enough, revealing space
Sufficient to have accommodated twice as many people. And
Mr. Burton found it amusing too; for Susan, who was in
charge. Was very suspicious of their motives, and anxious to
secure that she should not be put upon in any arrangement
that might be made. There was a large, quaint, old drawing-
room, with five glimmering windows — three fronting to the
road and two to the garden — not French sashes, cut down to
the ground, but old fashioned English windows with a sill to
them, and a solid piece of wall underneath. The chimney had
a high wooden mantelpiece with a little square of mirror ]**t
in, too high up for any purpose but that of giving a glimmer of
reflection. The carpet, which was very much worii, was
partially covered by a tightly strained white cloth, as if the
room had been prepared for dancing. The furniture was very
thin in the legs and aneular in its proportions; some of the
chairs weie ebony, with bands of faded gilding and covers of
ininute old embroidery, into which whole lives had been
Vorked. The curtains were old-fashioned, big- patterned chint2
— 4ike that we call Cretonne nowadays — ^with brown linings.
Everything wa? very old and worn, but clean and carefully
mended. The looker-on felt it possible that the entrance of a
stranger might so break the spell that all might crumble into
dust at a touch. But yet there was a quaint, old fashioned
elegance — not old enough to be antique, but yet, getting
venerable — about the suent old house. Mr. Burton was of
opinion that it would be better with new red curtains and some
plain, solid mahogany ; but if the things would do, considered
that it was unnecessary to incur further expense. When all
the necessary arrangements had been settled upon, the family
party went on to the railway station. This was a very frequent
qustom with them. Mr. Burton liked to come home in state
—to notify his arrival by means of the high-stepping greys

and the commotion they made, to his subjects^.bnt he was
quite willing to leave in the morning with grhceful hiimilil^
and that exhibition of family affection which brings even the
highest potentates to a level with common men. Wheii hd
arrived with his wife and his children and his dpgs at the
station, it was touching to see the devotion with which the
station-master and the porters and everybody a.bout' receiveld
the great man. The train seemed to have been made on pur-
pose for him — to have come on purpose all the way out of the
Midland Counties ; the railway people ran all alon^ its length
as soon as it arrived to find a vacant carriage for their demijod.
" Here* you are, sir !" cried a smiling porter. "Here you arel,
sir ! " echoed the station-master, rushing forward to open the
door. The other porter, who was compelled by duty to stand
at the little ^ate of exit and take the tickets, looked gloomily
upon the active service of his brethren, but identified himseu
with their devotion by words at least since nothing else was
left him. "What d'ye mean by being latel" he cried to thife
guard. "A train didn't ought to be late as takes gen tlemeu
to town for business. iTou're as slow, you are, as uvou waib

theladies'express.''^.,^ .; .^i^^i^ ^^^1^^ ' 'm^^^^

Mr. Burton laughed as he passed, and gladness stoi^ iiif^
the porter's soul. Oh» magical power of wealth ! when it
laughs, the world crows glad. To go into the grimy world of
business, and be rubbed against in uie streets by inen who dicl
him no homage, must be hard upon such a man, aft^r the ro^ra)
calm of the morning and all its pleasant circumstances. It was
after just such another morning that he went again to St.
Mary's Boad, and was admitted to see his cousin. Sh^ hacl
shut herself up for a fortnight obstinately. She would haire
done so for a year, in defiance of herself and of na.ture, !had it
been possible, that all the world might know that Robert hiad
" the respect" due to him. She would not have deprived hiin
of one day, one foid of crape, one imbecility of grief, of her owu
will. She would have been ill, if she could, to do him hononr|.
All this was quite independent of that misery of whic^
the world could know nothing, which was deep as the sea in
her own heart. That must last let her do what she would.
But sh^ would iam have given to her husband the! outside |op.
The forthig^t, hoFoyer, was ^11 that poor Helen coiuil ji^v^l

138

Ai HtS 6AT1SS.

|i .1

^i^adf siexin ncM was comiiig in^ and tlie creditors, to wbom
everytmng she had belon^edT When Mr. Burton was ad-
IDritted, t& man had begun to make an inventory of the
fmrnitiire. The pretty drawing room was already dismantled,
ihe plants all removed from the conservatory ; the canvases
Were stacked against the wall in poor Robert's studio, and a
jpicture dealer was there valuing tliem. They were of con-
siderable value now — more than they would have been had it
jltill been possible that they should be finished. People who
were making collections of modern pictures, would buy them
readily as tlie only "Druiumonds" now to be had. Mr. Bur-
ton went and looked at the pictures, and pointed out one
that he would like to buy. His feelings were not very delicate,
but yet it struck a certain chill iipoi him to go into that room.
Poor Drummond himself was lying at the bottom of the river
-—she could not reproach any one, even allowing that it was not
all his own fault And yet — the studio was unpleasant td Mr.
^lirton. It affected his nerves ; and in anticipation of his in-
terview with Heleti he wanted all his strength. "**''
'' !But Helen received him very gently, more so than he could
have hoped. She had not seen the papers. The world and
Its interests had gone away from her. She had read nothing
tjlut the good books which she felt it was right to read during
Her seclusion. She was unaware of all that had happened^ un-
Buspicious, did not even care. It had never occurred to her to
think of dishonour as possible. All calamity was for her con-
centrated in the One which had happened, which' had left her
idptiiihg in($re't6 fear. She was seated in a very small rbopii
opeii^iijig on the garden, which had once been appropriated to
Noiriah and her playthings. She was very pale, with the white
rim of her cap close round her face, and her hair concealed.
Korah was there too, seated close te her mother, giving her wh^t
support she could with her instinctive faithfulness. Mr.
j^urtdh Was more overcome by the sight of them than he C0vdd
have thought it possible to be. They were worse even diah
the studio. He faltered, he cleared his throat, he took Helen's
^i^nd and held it^then let it drop in a confused Way. He
wa9 overcome, she thought, with naturalvemotio^, with grief
^Qd pity. Anld it made her heart soft eVeh to a than 6h^:ioV^
so little. *' ThaiJ&B," she murmured, as she sank dowia upon

WiSa'''

her chair. That ti^mor in his voicid CQyeried ^ iiiiiltiti]4e pi ainil.

« I have b^en here before," he said.

"Yes, 80 I heard : it was very kind. Don^t speak of thai,
please. I am not able to bear it, though it is kind, very kind
ofyou."

" Everybody is sorry for you, Helen," he said, " but I don't
want to recall your grief to your mind **

" Recall ! " she said, with a kind of miserable smile. '* That
was not what I me^nt ; but— Reginald — my heart is too sore
to bear talking. I~~cannot speak, and— I would rather not
cry — not just now." ; ■ , ' ; 1 i t .

She had not called him Reginald before since they were boy
and girl together ; and that, and the piteous look she gave
him, and her ti-emulous prot<*st that she would rather not cry,
gave the man such a twinge through his very soul as he had
never felt before. He would hiaye changed places at the mo-
ment with one of his own porters to get out of it— to escape
from a position be alone w^s aware of. Norah was crying
without restraint. It was such a scene as a man in tho very
height of prosperity and comfort would hesitate to plunge into,
even if there had not risen before him those ghosts in the hewsr
papers which one day or other, if not now, Helen must find out.

" Wh^t I wanted to speiak of was your^own plans," he sai^
hastily, ''^ what you think of doing, and^f you will not thitilc
me impertinent — ^what you have to depend upon ? 1 >m yoi|[jr
nearest relation, Helen, and it is right I should know.** •

" If everything has to be given up, I suppose I shaU h^^e
nothing," slie and faintly. *^ There was my hundred a year
settled upon nac. The papers came the other day. Who niust
I give them toi J have nothing, ^ suppose."

"If your hundred a year was settled on you, of course you
have that, heaven be praised," said Mr. Burton, " nobody can
touch that. And, Helfn, if you like to come back to the old
neighbourhood, I have part of a house 1 could offer ybu. It is
of no use to ine, 1 can't let it ; so you might be quite easy in
your mind about that. And it is furhi|Bhed after a sojrt ^ 4nd
it would be rent firee." ' , . .' ' ,\\ ,^^\ !'t>,,-'hf

i?he tears wljiph she had bee^ restraining iTjshed tolieif e^ek
"iiowkindyouarel" she said. " dh, I can't say aiiy thihit ^
but you are very, very kind."

•

140

IT HIS OJ^tSS.

BH!

''I^eyermind about that You used to speak as if you did
ii6 1 like the old neighbourhood— — "

*' Ah I " she said, *' that was when I cared. All neighbour-
hoods are alike to me now."

** But you will get to care after a while/' he said. ** You
will not always be as you are now."

She shook her head with that faint little gleam of the pain-
fullest smile. To such a suggestion she could make no answer.
She did not believe her grief would ever lighten. She did not
wish to feel differently. She had not even that terrible experi-
ence which teaches some that the broken heart must h^al one
way or other — mend of its wound, or at least hav6 its wound
skinned over; for she had never been quite stricken down to
the ground before. •>, .

" Anyhow, you will think of it/' Mr. Burton said in a sooth-'
ing, tone. " N orah, you would like to come and live i^ the
country, where there was a nice large garden and plenty of
room to run about. You must persuade your mother to come.
I won't stay now to worry you, Helen, and besides, my time is
precious j but you will let me do this much for you, I hope."

She stood up in her black gown, which was so dismal and
heiayy, without anv reflection of light in its dull blackness, and

mich ' '

have a h6me-*-for Norah ; and I have nowhere — ^nowhere to

"Thei iiis setiled," he said witti ea^eaf'-^tt 1^ ikin-
finite relief to hini. Never in his life had he been so anxious
to serve a:iother. Was it because he had loved her once 1 be-
cause he loved her still? because she was bis relation 1 His
wife at that v^ry moment was pondering on the matter, tduch-
ing it as it were with a little sharp spear, which was not ce-
lestial like Ithuriel's. Being bis wife, it would have been ha
tural enough if some little impulse of jealousy had come across
her, and moved her towards the theory that her husband did
this out of love for his cousin. But Mrs. Burton had noi
blood eifiough in her veins, and she had too clear an intelligence
in l^eii'hcAd W be jealoius... Sl^e came to such a very differ-
ekt cbnci'usioh, that I hesitate to re|>e^t it ; and she^ too, half

AT HIS QATE8.

141

„', r .,Ti

geared bj the longjournej she had taken, and her yenr imper-
fect knowledge of the way by which she had travelled, did
not venture to put it into words. Bat the whisper at the bot-..(^^|
torn of her heart was " Kemorse ! Remorse 1 " ^rs. Barton
herself did not know for what, nor hoff; iS^r^ ^^ husband iiffi^^
guilty towards his cousin. ' '' ;.

But it was a relief to all parties when this interview was
over. Mr. Burton went away drawing a long breath. And
Helen applied herself courageously to the work which was be-
fore her. She did not make any hardship to herself about those
men \vho were taking the inye^tory. It had to be, and what
was that — ^what was the loss of everything in comparisons—^
The larger loss deadened her to the smaller ones, which is not,,
always the case. She had her own and Norah's clothes tp
pack, some books, a few insignificant tjrifles which she waa
allowed to retain, and the three unfinish<)d pictures, which in-
deed, had they not been given to hvr, she felt she could have
stolen. The little blurred sketch from the easel, a trifling sub-
ject, meaning little, but bearing in its smeared colours the last
handwriting of poor Robert's despair ; and that wistful face
looking up from the Jepths, up to the bit of blue sky far above ,
and the one star. Was that the Dives he had thought of, the
soul in pain so wistful, so sad, yet scarcely able to despair f It
was like hie letter, a sacred appeal to her not on this earth only>
but beyond — an appeal which would outlast death and the
grave. " The door into hell," she did not understand, but she
knew it had something to do with her husband's last agony.
These mournful relics were all she had to take with her into
the changed world.

A woman cannot weep violently when she is at work.
Tears may come into her eyes, tears may drop among the gar-
ments in which her past is still existing, but her movements
to and fro, her occupations stem the full tide and arrest it.
Helen was quite calm. While Norah brought the things for her
out of the drawers she talked to the child as ordinary people
I talk whose hearts are not broken. She had fallen into a cer- ,
tain stillness — a hush of feeling. It did her gqod to be astir. ^
When the boxes weo^e full and fastened she turned to her pic^.
tures, enveloping them carefully protecting the edges of them
I with cushions of folded paper. ISforah was still very busy ia

AT HI8 oxna.

finding the eord for her^ and holding the oanvMet in their
p^ce. , Tite child hkd tammaged out a heap of old neWspa-
pers, Ti^ith which the packing* wa9 being done. Suddenly i&e
begkti to cry as she ittobd hcSlding one in her hand.' ' ' '' '

*'0h, mampnal" she said, looking up with big ^yes hi
Helen's face. Oryine was not so rare in the house as to sur-
prise her mother. . She said — :

** Hush, my darling ! " and wettt oa But When she felt the
pilper thrust into her hatid, Helen 'stopped short in her task
and looked, not at it bbt at Norah. The tears Were hanging
oil the child'c^ cheeks, but she had st0|iped crying. She point-
ed to one column in th^ paper and watched her mother with
eyes like those of Di ves^ in the picture. Heleh gave a cry when
sn6 looked at it, " Ah i " as if sotne sharp blow had beeli given
to her. It was the natiie, nothing httt, her husband's name,
that had pierced her likjB a sudden dagger. Btit she read on,
without doubting^ with|ont thinking. It was the dHijcle writ*
teh two dih^s before oil the history of the paihter Drummond,
** the wretched man," ^ho' had Airnishcd a. te^ct for a sermon
to the J)(iili/ Stmajfhore.

Norah had react onl^ a sentence at the beginning which she
but partially unde|[^tOod, It Was something tinkind, something
untrue about *' poor papa.^ ^ut she read lier mother now in-
stead, comprehending it by het looks. Helen Went ovet the
whol'e without drawmg breath. Jt brought back the blood to
her pale cheeks ; it ran like a wild new life into eviry irein,
into every nerve. She turned round in the twihkhng of an
eye, without a pause ibr thought, and put on the black bonnet
with'itr overVhelmins crape veil whidh had been brought to
her that morning. ShjB ha4 no^ wanted it befbre. It was the
fir^t time in hei* life that SfaO had i^eq\^ired td look at the
world through thdsie folds of crape.

** May I cpnie too, matoma T" said Norah isofbly. She did not
krioW Inhere they were going' j but h^ceforWard where her
ntotner was there was the place for Norah, 'at home or abroad,
sleopitig of wakiiig. The child clUng to Heleh's hand as they
opened the^fainili&r dpor^ an<^ Irent out Ohce again— after a life-
tiibe-^ihto the otic.<) familiar; tho^ (Changed ^nd awful world. A
«ttihhiet^feV^nittig'''<ia.Vly jtttiei the WoJih tiiefviay off the lilacs,
th^ fitst:r6S^ i^OttiJtii^ dii'^et^e^s'^ihb Sti^j^^ d&yiight dazisiled

■•J

▲T HIS 01TB8.

143

them, and the sound of passing voices bnzsed and echoed, as if
they had been the centre of a crowd. Or rather, this was their
effect upon Helen. Norah, clinging to her hand, pressed close to
her side, watched her, and thought of nothing more.

Dr. Maurice was going to his solitary dinner. He had wash-
ed his hands and made himself daintii!y nice and tidy, as he
always was ; but he had not changed his rooming cofit. H4
vas standing with his back a^inst the writing table in hit
library, lookmg up dreamily at Drummond's picture, and wait}'
ing for the sound of the bell which should summon him intfO
the next room to his meal. tVhe^ ^he door bell sounded, hd-
stead impatience seized him. i^;^''"': '';,"';

"What fool cab thai be comiiignow 1" he said to himself
and turned round in time to see John's scared face peeping into '
the room before he introduced those two figures, those two with
their dark black dresses, the one treading in the very steps of
the other, moving with her movement He gaVe a cry of sur- ,.
prise. He had not seen them since bhe day after DrummoncL's
death. He had gone to inquire, and had left anxious, {kind
messages, but he^ too, had conventional ideas in his mind and
had tholight the widow ''would not be able "to see any one. '
Yet now she had come to him

"Dr. Maurice," she said, with no other preliminary, coming
forward to the table with her newspaper, holding out no hano,
giving him no salutation, while Norah moved mth her, step for
step, like a shadow. **Dv. Maurice, what does this mean V*

'11!

■ I ,'

7 OUV'

.lui'f illrfr

'i,t/?'Mfj

■■ 'lit 9fli Til h-ilnj-: -y./f

■■>■• ;,'

Al' His OATEd.

ixjji; n'j.-io I

-■r-:

yl>i4' t)Mfi f)3i'

«i*£

^'C;?Aj*p:^,xvT.'

■?ijj

I'li

WOtJliDnot like to say what despairing thought Dr.
Maurice might have had about his dinner in the first mo-
ment when he turned round and saw Helen Drummond's
pa^e face under her crape veil; but there were many thoughts
on the subject in his household, and ipuch searchings of heart.
John had ^^^ aghast at the arrival of visitors, and especially
of such visitors at such a moment ; but his feelings would not
permit him to carry up dinner immediately, or to sound the

beU^he note of warning. ^,f.,la,d;, :w;^vu

f* I canna do it, I canna do it — do not ask me, he said,; for
he was a north-country man, and whep his heart was moVed
feU back upon his old idiom.

** Maybe the lady would eat a bit herself, poor soul," the
cook said, in insinuating tones. " Vve known folks, eat in a
strange house, for the strangeness of it like, when they couldn't
swallow a morsel in their own."

** Pon't ask me ! " said John, and he seized a stray teapot
and be^an to i>oli8h it in the trouble of his heart., There was
silence in the kitchen for ten minutes at least, for the cook was
a mild woman till driven to extremities ; but to see fish grow-
ing into wool and potatoes to lead was more than any one
could be expected to bear.

*' Do you see that 1 " she said in despair, carrying the dish up
to him, and thrusting it under his eyes. John threw down his
teapot and fled. He went and sat on the stairs to be out of
reach of her remonstrances. But the spectre of that fish went
with him, and would not leave his sight ; the half-hour chimed,
the three-quarters —

" I canna stand this no longer !" John said in desperation,
and rushing up to the dining-room, sounded the dinner bell.

Its clang disturbed the Tittle party in the next room who
were so differently occupied. Helen was seated by the table
with a pile of papers before her ; her hands trembled as she
turned from one to another, but her attention did not swerve*

▲T HIS O^TES.

She was, following through them every scrap that bore upon
that ope 8U' JBQt. Dr. Maurice had procured th^in all for hdri
He haid felt that one time or other she must know all, and
that then her information must be complete. He himself was
walking about the room with his hands in his pockets, now
stopping to point out or explain something, now taking up a
book, unsettled and unhappy, as a man generally looks when he
has to wait, and has nothing to do. He had sought out a book
for Norah, to the attractions of which the poor child, yield-
ed. At first she had stood close by her mother. But the con-
tents of those were not for Norah's eye, and Helen herself had
sent her awav. ' She had put herself in the window, her nat-
ural (lace ; the ruddy evening lieht streamed in upon her, an4
found out, between the black of her dress and that of her hat^
a gleam of brown hair, to which it gaVu double brightness by the
contrast; and gradually she fnll into her old attitude, her ola
absorption. Dr. Maurice walked about the room, and ponder-
ed a hundred things. Ue would have given half he possessed
for that fatherless child^who sat reading in the light, and for;
getting he|r childish sorrow. The mother in her mature beau-
ty was little to him^ — but the chiM — ^a child like that I And
she was not his. She was Robert Drummond'a, who lay
drowned at the bottom of the river, and whose very name wa^
drowned too in those bitter waters of calumny and shamei.
Strange providence that metes so unequally to one and to an-
other! The man did not think that he too might have had a
wife and children had he so chosen ; but his heart hankered
for this that was his neighbour's, and which no magic, not even
any subtle spell of love or protecting tenderness, could^^Y|^
make his own. / /r '

And Helen, almost unconscious of the presence of either,
read through those papers which had been preserved for her.
She read Golden's letter, and the comment upon it. Sh^ read
the letter which Dr. Maurice had wiitten, contradicting those
cruel assertions. She read the further comments upon thai
How natural it was j how praiseworthy was the vehemence of
friends in defence of the dead — and how entirely without proof I
The newspaper pointed out with a cold distinctness, which
looked like hatred to Helei[i, that the fact of the disappearance
of the books told fatally againsi ** the unhappy man. Whj

rr7rWr>l««,«J*lJ|fftl,._i'>:J^j)tttrf:i

■■i^'i-ft^fimi^i^^'^'^^-:

i4«

li'1m'0i.rta.

iiiil lie desti^^r thdse evidences which would no doubt li^to
cldttr^ hitn' h^ he icted fairly and hon^tlyl Day by d^y
^hb ti^ed th^; cbnrlse of this controversy which had been going
6n while she had shut herself up in darknbss. It gleamed
licross her as she turned from one to another that this was
why her energy had bken preserved and her strength sustain-
ed. I^he had not bi'oken down like other women, for this cause.
God hftd ke|)t h^r tip for this. The discussion had gone on
ddwnto that very morning, when a little editorialnote, append-
^ to a short letter — one ^ the many which had come from all
dbrtti of p>6ople in defence of the painter — had announced thieit
sUbh a' controversy could no longer be carried on **m thi^se
^kgesl** *^^No doubt 'the friends of Mr, Drummond will take
further steps to j^rove the innocence of which they are so fully
^^hvinced, it said, "and' it mtist l;e evident, to all paiiies that
the ^dlumns of a' heWspaper is not the place for a prolotjged
discussion on a personal subject." Helen scarcely spoke While
(ffie Viead all theto. ' Bhe did not hear the dinner-bell. The noise
olf thei dodr ^hen Dr. Maurice rushe<| to it with threatening
itbrd knd look, to John's confusion, scarcely moved her. **Be
ti[tii^t, dear," she said uncotfsciously, when the doctor's voice in
the hall, whei*e h6 had fallen upon bis servant, came faintly
ihib hei^ >bstraciion. ' *' You rascal! how dare you take such a
lib6lftjr '^hen ydu knew who was with me 1" was what Dr.
M&unce Was sayink wi th rage in his voice. - Bu t to Helen it
iiej^ined as if little T^orah, forgetting the cloud of misery about
^er, 'hiA begnh to talk more Ujghtly than she ought. " Oh, my
ibhild, be ^ui^t," she repieated , " be quiet ! " Ail her soul was
kbisbrbl^d in this. ' She had no room for any other thought.

pr. Maurice came back with a flush of anger on his ^ce.
"TthcBse people wbtild think it necessary to consider their miser-
;iible dishes if the laist' judgment were coming on," he said. He
i^i(fi a kind man, and vety sorry for his friend's widow. He
>r6i!^ld have ^iVen up much to help her ; but perhaps he too wis
Uuhgr}', and the thoujgbt of the spoilt dishes increased his
.^^hemehce. She looked at him, putting back her veil with a
blahkl look of absolute incomprehension. She had heard no
thiiie, kh&w nothing. ' Comfort; and dinners, and servants, and
M'tSe'iblat^abheriiiUia of btdin^Iife, wete a' hundred niiles
"^^ froiii her 'thdii^tsT '^■'^^^'&^' .■ ^ .^^)ou ^TTi:.

ATrJKS^eATEH.

" Ypu I " , j^i^r w<ilf I ThprQ woa siomethiAg piikftoite i^. Iwr> look
q£ appeal l^he pij^ , fap<} ftiid gleaming eyes, the li0lplQ9«|ie9$
^nd tjhe ei^^rgy,; ^11 ^tnupkihim.i^t a/glanpe-na oombinatiASi
W%hilie,,<jii4;nptiWder8tw<i •■'; ".i>liil-. ■!-;; .i ■: rdwni
,^ " ^es^^e I tXqu , iwiU ?fty vhat^ can J dp !; 1 cannot/MU
tWi?i^pi5l4iWb^t he^as^jap ypw hay© dpae. nTtew»l?8.for,1;b»;^//
iilie i^idyjbpldiog put her haad tpihim. **'iChQ. wifejo^nnp^
spe^ forj he^ husljft^d* i w4 t caftmoti M^rite *o tlie pf^p^rst.. i i J
am,q)jit!E» . j^p^aplk , / if?^ jMftimfte,; t«U flW; iC ypn.lwQW:. Wh«t

^WiJ'ilv^:^: .ii li'iiv/ Mrriji-j tj:i!j n^w hjii>'-.'»i ?jifi>;rt aiii~-Hg>D,H^ (-.iii cii
.JLpr glfi^mjpf, wild jftdjgnatipnpwap gonp. oI|JI had sun^il)^
JTore the controversy^ the.d^^s^ipn whipH l<he ¥^iV!9pl(pei1B
wpuld iflp lo v^^ o^j cpiiti^ue, if popri [^hejl?t ha4i melb ( wim no
djBfj^nd^rs, sh/" > Id^ave felt heiiiself inspired. But hislriendu
had sppken^. -/ -^davKhocoi^ldi^peak. And deep deprepsipn
fy\\ pyer, hfjr. ; ";dh .1 ", fihe said, dft^ing her hftnds, ^* must. m9
hear ifc ? la thejje, npthing-^nothing I can dpi"; i >'>lq Uil

Ag{4n apd again: 1^£^4< he ^ed himself the sftme qne9tiioi|.
*^ Mrs. p^i^nimond," he, si^id, " ypn Q|in dp npthing ; tiry ^iumI
jn^ke np ypur mind, tp; it. I hoped .ypu. might, never iiHno]Dr<.
A lady pan dp nothing in a matter, pf business* You feel ypil|^
self th^ you cannot if i*ite or speak. And what; good WoM
it dp eyenif you conld ?, X s^y that, a more honourable, m(^]^
never existed. You cpuld say,; I know, a great deal ,mo^0 tlian
th|it ; but wliat , dpes it, mifvtter. without prpof ) If we cpuld
^nd put about thpsp bpok^-^-TT-" ;,;

"He did, not kinow anything abput hppks" st^id, Helen ji " he
could not even.keep his i own, a^countS'-^at. least; it wa^i a. trpvi^
hie to him. Oh, you know that ; how often have .weT?rlaughft4
-Oh, my Gpd, niy iQpd 1 "ii r ,ffN (mah «m«s ml . . ! i

Lajighed I Th!9; wo^d^ brou^c^t thp tpaTS ev^n to; ,to
Mf!,iixic^'8 eyes, ^e ,put jj^, hJ^nii on, ,her: a^n^ .and i patfeed, ^
*pftly» as, iffsjip.Jiad,; b^n, ,a, chiji f * ippprjspul/l popr spj^li ! "
he said : the. tears had got, intpr his ,i^piceMtP!0,,janf|,jAll .h)P
P,rn,<ih9#gh|fl,l^eft^,o^t;i ofAy«,mi«d,iift,th§i)K«W^h,pj{i)u| ^jff^r

14S

AT fill OATSfi.

pathjr* He watf k cautious man, noi dii^sed to eottthit'him-
Belf v but the touch of emotion overpowered all his defiances.
*'Look here, Mrs. Drummond," he said; "I don't know what
we may be able to do, but I promise you something shall be
done — I give you my word. The shareholders are making a
movement already, but so many of them are ruined^ so many
hesitate, as people say, to throw away good money after the
bad. I don't know why I should hesitate, I am sure. I have
neither chick nor child." He glanced at Norah as he spoke —
at Norah lost in her book, with the light in her hair, and her
outline clear against the window. But Helen did not notice,
did not think what he could mean, being absorbed in her c\7n
thoughts. She watched him, notwithstanding, with dilating
eyes. She saw all that at that moment she was capable of seeing
in his face — ^the rising resolution that came with it, the flash of
purpdse. ** It ought to be done," he toid, "even for justice.
1 will do it— for that-^and for Robert's sake." '

< She held out both her hands to him in the enthusiasm of her
ignorance. '* Oh, God bless you ! God reward you ! " she said.
It seemed to her as if she had accomplished all she had come
for, and had cleared her husband's name. At least his ftiend
had pledged himself to do it, and it seemed to Helen so easy.
He had only to refute the lies which had been told^; to prove
how true, how honest, how tender, how good, incapable of hurt-
ing a fly ; even how simple and ignorant of business, more ig-
norant almost than she was, he had been ; a man who had
never kept any books, not even his own accounts ; who had a
profession of his own, quite 'difiereut, at which he worked;
who had not been five times in the City in his life be lord he be-
came connected with Kivers's. After she had bestowed that
blessing, it seemed to her almost as if she were making too
much of it, as if she had but to go herself and tell it all, and
prove his whitest innocence. To go herself — ^but she did not
know where. ,iudni

Dr. Maurice came down with a little tremulousness of excite-
ment about him from the pinnacle of that resolution, lie
knew bettei* what it was. Her simple notion of ;/* going and
telling" resolved itself, in his mind, to an action before the
law-c6urts, to briefs, and uritn^sses, and expendituM. But he
was a man without chiok or child; he waa not ruined by

AT HIS-^QATSa

BivenV Hie sum he bad lost had been enongh toi^ive him an
interest in the question/not enough to injure bis powers of ope^
ration. And it was a question of justice, a matter which some
man ougbt to take up. Nevertheless it was a great resolution
to take. It would revolutionize his quiet life, and waste the
substance wbich be applied, be knew, to many good uses. He
felt a little shaken when be came down. And then^^bis din*
ner, tbe poor friendly unfortunate man !

" Let T^orab come and eat something with me," he said,
" tbe child must be tired. Come too, and you shall have a
chair to rest in, and we will not trouble you ; and then I will
see yon home."

*'Ab) " Helen gave an unconscious cry at the word. But
already, even in this one hour, she bad learned the first bard
lesson of grief, which is that it must not fatigue others with its
eternal presence — that they who suffer most must be content
often to suffer silently, and put on such smiles as are possible
— the ghost must not appear at life's commonest board any more
than at tbe banquet It seemed like a dream when five minutes
later she found herself seated in an easy-chair in Dr. Maurice's
dining-room, painfully swallowing some wine, while Norah sat
at tbe table by him and shared his dinner. It was like a
dream ; twilight had begun to fall by this time, and tbe 'lamp
was lighted on the table — a lamp which left whole acres of
darkness all round in tbe long dim room. Helen sat and looked
at the bright table and Norah's face, which turning to her com-
panion began to grow bright too, unawares. A fortnight is a
long age of trouble to a child. Norah's tears were still ready
to come, but the bitterness was out of them. She was sad for
sympathy now. And this change, the gleam of light, the
smile of her old friend — ^his fond, half-mocking talk, felt like
happiness come back. Her mother looked on from tbe shady
corner where she was sitting, and understood it all. Robert's
friend loved him ; but was glad now to pass to other matters,
to common life. And Robert's child loved him, but she was a
child, and she was ready to reply to the first touch of that same
dear life. Helen was growing wiser in her trouble. A little
while ago she would have denounced the changeableness, and
struggled against it. But now she understood and accepted
what was out of her power to change.

'^fW^l^^m^^iMte^t^ite^^S^^^jgj^^ _

Aft dUft 4Ji^rm

tin

iM^nvery kitid. Heldnhti^ ti^' Mtod^ee^ hM i^ att^^k^f
#lih the assault 611 her husbandV m^moi^. ShW's^kief'off^ti^i^
^itihaiialf gratitude which fiU^ the Di^ctot* With 8^i)l|[)^^^
fury. He had been verykittd^^he had ofl^^ed her fc ihbubei ^
' '* I taught you^'diisliked Durd/' he Htdd With- kA ikp^tWce
#M6h he cbuM not restrain.

• "Add 80 i did," she absWered'dirleatnly; "ttfl Idtig aii Icbtd^

It does not matter now." "' ' •'< '. -^

*^Th^h you will fttill'gor ' ' :dA"

"fetiail 0h,yfe8r wh^re shbttMwe go el«e1' The^/^

w^r!<i is the same^to u« rio'w/'^id Hel^i « Arid Notah'WiU

^ http^i^ in the country i it is good ttii*'*' ■• '

'*«Omid air T said Dr; Hiauride. " Goc(<l» hefcvettk,* whkt »d^

ym h^ thinking of 1 And the child will grovK Up Witlieut any

m^ [ tij ' te»ch her, without a— friend. WhAt ie tb b* ' ddne ' fd*

her' edticatioii I What is to be done-^Mrsi DtunAihond' I- Wei^

yd<ir|' pardon. I hope you will forgive me. I hav^ got intb a

#ay*^'^ interfering ahd ^laking myself ridiculous, bfit' I'did not

"N^y,"'i3aid HeleA gefltly, half because she felt s6i^eatyj
&iE^' biecanse there was a certain comfort ih thiiikihg that any
ottte cared, "I am ttot angry. I know you would think 61
What is best for Norah; But Dh Maurice^ we sh^' bcfV<«?y

Hb did not mak^ anyreply ; hewas half ashatUed '6f biri
vehenlence, and yet withal he was Unhappy at this lieWcbailger
Wa^ itnol enough that he had lost Druttinlond, his oldest
fihiidt but he must lose the cMM too, whiom hei had watched
^^ since she Was borni H^ cast a glance rbuiid dpduthd
g^^at tOoin, which might have held a dozen pieople, atid iti
Sis ittind surveyed the echoing chambers above, of which but
(rtihvrki occupied. And then he glanced at Nbrah's face, still
birightj but slightly clouded bVer^ beside him, and thought bf
ihb pt«tty pictui^ she ha^ made in the library sddied- agaitist
«b«r<wiiidoW;i Burton, who was their ^ti^my<whbihad>b^tt'i&d
chief agent in bringing them b (>bt«fH}]t, ^ouM givtf 1^«i£i^^^

AT BIS OATB^

hQinQ,t(^ shelter t^ieir hou^elesfi headq. And why.cquld ii^o^he,
who hii4 neither chick nor child, who had, a houa^.SQ ninp^ too.
hi^, for him, why could not he taJj^e then^ in 1 J.ust to, hty^p me
ehii^ io^thehovLM, to see her now and then, to hear her ypice
gn the stairs, or watch her running from room to room^ woul^
he all he should want. They could Uve ther^ an4 harm ^o^
hody, and save their little pittance This thought ran through
his mind» and then he stopped and confounded ^lirton.. Buj^
Burton had nothing to do wi,th ^^. He ha,d better, h^ye op^-,
founded the world, which >ulu ^t permit him tc f^^p^v 'il^wififfi
to his friend's widow. He gave .« furtive glance^ 4elen in
th^ shadow. He (ficL not want H^len in, his, house, ^l^ fi^^i^4X
wife l^aclnev^r attracted him ; and thpugli.ne, would hj^vfi b^|i^
the kindest of guardians to his friend's widow, still thj^ft^yr^
nothing in her tnat^ touched his heart. But he coul4 not Qpei^
his doors to her and say, " Come" He knew if he did sp hoiff j
the men would grin and the women whisper ; how imper^in^
prophecies would flitahout, or slandersmuch worse than imperti-
nent. No, he could not do it , he could not have Norah hy, tp
help on her education, to have a hand in her tj^^ining, tomak|B
her a cl^ld of his own. He had no child. Jt wa^ Jbis lot hi
live alone and have no soft hand ever in his, ^'^l this wat
very ridiculous, for, as I have said before, Dr. Manfice waa
very well off; he was not old , or bad-looking^ and he migkt
have married like other men. But then he d^d not want U^
marry. He wanted little Norah Drummond to he his .,chiid|
and he wanted nothing more. • w *-

Helen leaned back in her chair without any thought oJT whivfj
was passing through his heart. That her child should have
inspired a grande passion at twelve had never entered her mind,
and she took his words in their simplicity and pondered over
them. '* I can teach her myself," she said with a tremor in
her voice. This man was not her friend, she knew. He had
no partial good opinion of her, such as one likes one's friends
to have, but judged her on her merits, which few people are
vain enough to put much trust in ; and she thought that very
likely he would not think her worthy of such a charge. " I
have taught her most of what she knows," she added with a
little more confidence, ** And then the great thing is, we shall
be very poor," •

^'i^mamt.f

ip'

AT HIS GATES.

"Forgive me!" lie widj "don't say any more. I Wa6 tnd-
bardonaole rash — ^impertinent — don't think oi /vhat I said.'" 7-

'And then he ordered his carriage for them and sent th^m
hotn^. I do not know whether perhaps it did not occur to
Helen as she drove hack through the summer dusk to her dis-
mantled house what a difference there was between their desti^-
tution and poverty and all the warm glow of comfort &nd ease
which surrounded this lonely man. But there can be no doubt
that Norah thought of it, who had taken in everything with
her bto wn eyes, though she said little. While they were driv-
ing along in the luxurious smoothly-rolling brougham, the
child crept close to her mother, clasping Helen's arm with bouh
her hands. "Oh, mamma," she said, "how strange it is that
we should have lost everything and Dr. Maurice nothing, that
he should have that great house and this nice carriage, and us
be driven away from St. Mary's Road ! What can God be
thinking of, mamma 1" , , ; ; "

"Oh, Norah, mv dear child; ive liave each othel'; and hefcas
hphody," said Helen ; and in her heart there was a frenzy of
tiiuihph over this mail who wa^i so much better off than she
^as. The pborsp often have that consola ^n and eiometimes
it ii^ not much of a consolation after all. i- t; Helen felt it to
the bottbpa of her heart as she drew her child to her, and felt
the Warm, soiPt clasp of hands, the routid cheek against her own.
Ttiro desolate, lonely creatures in their black dresses — but two,
and together: whereas Dr. Maurice, in his wealth, in his
strength, in what the world would have called his happiness,
was'butone:*T.'^"^''^'*^*'

Inxil fiH .'MnnA

).■„,, .

M,.

■■mm[ mJUi

AT HIS GATES.

1, .i»|Vff{ iin ,fKt'/i^f»rf m j»^ fffii.f 'to >fftlfft ;

GHAPTEB XVIL

IBM

If. 1

<hrti rift

|HE pretty house in St. Mary's Koad — what a change ha4
come upon it ! There was a great painted hoard in front
describing the desirable residence, with studio attached,
which was to be let. The carpets were half taken up and Itdd
in rolls along the floor, the chairs piled together, the oos^y;
pretty furniture, so carefully chosen, the things which belorigied
to the painter's early life, and those which were the product of
poor Drummond's wealth, all r«^moved and jumbled together,
and ticketed "Lot 16," "Lot 20." *' Lot 20," was the chair
which had been Helen's chair for years — the one poor Robert
had kissed. If she had known that, she would have spent her
last shilling to buy it back out of the rude hands that turned
it over. But even Helen only knew half of the tragedy which
had suddenly enveloped her life. They threaded ^eir way up<>
stairs to their bedroom through all those gliosts. It was stul
early ; but what could they do down-stairs in the house whidi
no longe** retained a single feature of hornet Helen put her
child to bed, and then sat down by her, shading the poor little
candle. It was scarcely quite dark even' now. It is Ikever
dark in June/ Through the open window there came the sound
of voices, people walking about the streets after their work
was over. There are so many who have only the streets to
walk in, so many to whom St. Mary's lioad, with its lilacs and
laburnums and pretty houses, was pleasant and fresh as if it had
been in the depths of the Country. Helen saw them from
the window, coming and going, so often two, arm in arm,
who loitered and looked up at the lighted house, and spoke
softly to each other, making their cheerful comments. The
voices sounded mellow, the distant rattle of carriages wias soft^
ened by the night, and a soft wind blew through the lilacs, and
some stars looked wistfully out of the pale sky. Why are they
80 sad in summer, those lustrous starsi Helen looked out ait
theih, and big tears fell softly out of her eyes. Oh^ face bf
Dives looking upl Oh^ true and kind and just and gtotle

154

▲T HIB QMTEB,

soul I Must she not even think of him as in heayen, as hidden
in God with the dead who depart in faith and peace, but gone
elsewhere, banished for ever! The thought crossed her like
an awful shadow, but did not sting. There are some depths
of misery to which heiQthy niUiuiie ^efbses to descend, and this
was one. Had she felt as many good people feel on this sub-
fwi, andiiasi she herself believed theoretically ^hatBhe felt^ I
]Bno# whii- Helen would have done. She would have gone
down to that river I and joined him in his own way,, wherever
lie Wias^ choosinjg it so. No doubtv she Would have been wrong.
Bi^tr «h* did not descend into that abysA. She kept by her
faith in Gbd < instinetivellr^ not by any doctrine. Did not God
hMitof But' even the edge of it^ the i^l^ow of the thought
was enough t6 chill her &>m head to foot. She stole in from
the wind)ow^ and tat down atthe foot of the bed where Norah
layV' akid tried to thinks She had thought there could ibe no
Ibtbre change^ n6 difference one way or other ; but since this
Veiy morning whJEtt changes there were !-^her last confidence
•hBtteredy^her liist comfort thrust from her. Robert's good
Bpimei! She^ tat quite sileilt for hours^ thinking it overi while
f^orah slept. Sometimes for a moment it Went nigh to make
Hermad;! Of all frantic things ih the World, there is< nothing
lUde tbat'SeniB^ uf impoteoce-n-to feel the wrbng and to be un-
abtoi to ' move Against it. It woke a feverish irritation in her, a
tourd resentment, a rage which she could not overcome, nor
satisfy by any exertion^ What could she do, a feeble woman,
igainst the men who had cast this stigtaia on her husband)
^e did not even knoW who they were^ except Golden. It
iwas he who was the origin of it all, and whose profit it was to
^Mrdve himself innocent % the fable of Robert's guilt ! Robert's
l^iit ! li was the ihbst . horriUe farce, a fiuroe which was a
jferagedy, which every dne who knew him miist laugh at wildly
smong their* tears. But then the world did not know him ; atid
ihi world likes to think the Worsts to beliete in guilt as the
^h& tiling'- always possible. That there were people who knew
li«ttca^ had been proved to herrr-peoi^e who had ventured to
caU^ouiindignantly, and say, '*This is not true/' without wait>
ingito be^kJBd. Oh, God bless Uiem ! God bless them ! But
Kdifflp/Wei^otrthfe world!
&I^WJiebitiie:'niilii>>waftidaiB{^ wiilkeis 6ttt«ide had

A^ &# ^Afri^

gone, wtien sll wis qliii;!^^ ^^te^^ tttf#> Midtilren tiis trftM«^ sfM
of a late pasBCf^^f, Heleni^iit td thle windo^^otictt'^dfe^ MM
looked dnt tipoh that t^diM.' Wh^t a littte tit of a wdrld it'-ii
tfa^t awoinaii cati see fboM her vntuddw i-^a ftMr silent' rdoliv
and closed wihdows, oMe or tvr6 figures going and coming, not
a soul whom she khew or oould inlfluence; but all thoie tiii>i
known people, when they he^d -her husband^b name, if it wei^
years and yiears hettee, would remembeli^ the sknder that' had
staii^ed it, and would never know hh innocence, his inoapaoity
even for sueb guilt. Thib is what gives force to a llo, thit lA
what gives bitterness, beydnd telling, to the hearts of thosid
who are impotent, whose contradiotioti counts fbr nothii^g, whd
have no proof, but only' c^Miiinty. What a night it wait !— 'liktt
Paradise ^veti in Lonaoh. The angek might have been istrky-
ingthicrgh those bhied^ths of air, through the celelstiiu
warmth atid coolness, without any derogation from thteir hfigk
estate. It was not mOoiillight, nor stiarlight^ nor dawti,' but
some heavenly combination df ftll thr^e which breathed' over
the blue arch above, so serette, a^ d^ep, sb unfkthomAbl^ ; and
down below the peopled eaHh li&y like a c^ild,' defbnoeleda and
trustfulin the arms of its Mtiker. " Dear (x'od, this very city seeniii
asleep ! '* But here was one pair of eyes that no slee^ visited^
which dared not look up t6 heaVen too closely lest her dead
should not be there ; which dared not take any comfort iti the
pity of earth j knowing that it condemned while it pitied: God
help the solitary, the helpless, the wronged, those who can see
no compensation for their sufferings, no possible alchemy thdt
dm bring godd dut of them ! Heleii crept to bed at lltot, and
slept. It was the Only thiUg in Which where remained atiy con-
solation ; to be unconscious, to sliut bUt life ahd- lij^ht and all
that accompanies thed ; to be for ad hour, for ft t&oment, ft^
good a^ dead. There are mikny pebple always j to Whom tfaiil' is
the best blessing remaining ill the World: "^' *>« t>J ^ ' '^

The morning brought a letter from Mr; Burtott, aUnonneiii^
that the house at Dura was ready to receive his cousin. Helen
Would have been thankful t^ go but fbr the discovery she had
made on the previous day. Alter that it seemed to hei^ that to
be Oil the s^oi, to be where she could maintaiii poor lt6bert/6
ciiuse, or hear of others mftihtaining it, was all she wttiited ]M>#
in the wblrld But thifil Wilis a M^.fH^cy> sUiih fttf the<|fboii<Slll^

"»^aw«.«*i«B>W4'''«

■

wH^'r

W|;

Mi''

if*''

Wli ''

mm/

156

AT HIS OATIB.

not inclulffe in* She arnrnged everything to go to her new
home on Uie next day. It was time at least that she should
leave this place in which her own room was with difficulty pre.
served to her for another night All the morning the mother
and daughter shut themselves up there, hearing the sounds of
the commotion below — the furniture rolled about here and
there, the heavy feet moving about the uncarpeted etairs and
rooms that already sounded hollow and vacant. Bills of the
sale were in all the windows ; the very studio, the place which
now would have been sacred if they had been rich enough to
indulge in fancies. But why linger upon such a scene 1 The
homeliest imagination can form some idea of circumstances
which in themselves are common enough.

In the afternoon the two went out — to escape from the house
more than anything else. " We will go and see the Haldanes,"
Helen saitl to her child ; and Norah wondered, but acquiesced
gladly. Mrs. Drummond had never taken kindly to the fact
uiat her husband's chief friend lived in Victoria Villas, and
was a Dissenting minister with a mother and sister who could
not be called gentlewomen. But all that belonged to the day
of her prosperity, and now her heart yearned for some one who
loved Kobert — some one who would believe in him — ^to whom
no vindication, even in thought, would be necessary. And the
Haldanes had been ruined by Rivers's. This was another bond
of union. She had called but once upon them before, and then
under protest ; but now she went nimbly, almost eagerly, down
the road, past the line of white houses with their railings.
There had been much thought and many discussions over Mr.
Burton's proposal within Uiose walls. They had heard of it
nearly a fortnight since, but they had not yet made any fonnal
decision ; that is to say, Mrs. Haldane was eager to go ; Miss
Jane had made a great many calcuUtions, and decided that the
offer ought to be accepted as a master of duty ; t>ut Stephen's
extreme reluctance still kept them from settling. Something,
however, had occurred that morning which had added a sting
to Stephen's discouragement, and taken away the little strength
with which he had faintly maintained his own, way. In the
warmth and ifervour of his hearty he had used his little mags-
nne to vindicate his friend. A nuniber of it had been just go*
iog to the press when the papeirs had published Prummond'i

At His QAtB6.

157

cotiddmnfttton, and Haldatie, who knew htm so wfll--a]l hik
weftknesi and bis strength — had dashed into the field and pro*
claimed, in the only way that was possible to him, the inno-
cence and excellence of his friend. All his heart had been in
it ; he had made such a sketch of the painter, of his genius
(poor Stephen thought he had genius), of his simplicity and
goodness and unimpeachable honour, as would have filled the
whole denomination with delight, had the subject of the sketch
been one of its potentates or even a member of Mr. Haldane's
chapeL But Robert was not even a Dissenter at all, he had
nothing to do with the denomination ; and, to tell the truth, his
iloge was out of place. Perhaps Stephen himself felt it was
so after he had obeyed the first impulse which pror pted it.
But at least be was not left long in doubt. A letter had
reached him from the magazine committee that morning. They
had told him that they could not permit their organ to be mad'
the vehicle of private feeling ; they had suggested an apology
in the next number ; and they had threatened to take it alto-
gether out of his hands. Remonstrances had already reach :^
them, they said, from every quarter as to the too secular eh ir-
acter of the contents ; and they ventured to remind Mr. Hal-
dane that this was not a mere literary journal, but the organ
of the body, and intended to promote its highest^ its spiritual
interests. Poor Stephen! he was grieved, and he writhed
under the pinch of this interference. And then the magazine
not only brought him in the half of his income, but was the
work of his life— he had hoped to ** do some good " that way.
He had aimed at improving it, cutting short the gossip and
scraps of local news, and putting in something of a higher
character. In this way he had been able to per&. »de himself
through all his helplessness, that he still possessed H>me power
of infiuence'ovtsr the world. He had been so completely sub-
dued by the attack, that he had given in about Mr. Burton's
house, and that very day the proposal had been accepted ; but
he had not yet got the adsault itself out of his head. All the
morning he had been sitting with the manuscript and proofs
before him which were to make up his new number, comment-
ing upon them in the bitterness of bis heart.

" I suppose I must put this in now, whether I like it or not/'
he said. ** I never suspected before how many pangs ruin

<^':'Tmm-3twmmtmiy!smt^imiifiC'm'^i'Mmmm;^i

,4iih-mfi?M'm'

.Wne^W t^ing. rl n^ipftld V^i^it ui\ th^ fire, i^ , I 4^6^, »p4, jfir^e
^e world of ^p^much iiUi'temper^ fpHy ; ^^^ iBi^tepu^. ifr^ot^
Xt« aq4 I;4ai;Q no^ Fanjcy,,! (iar^ no^! If I !ba4 W^ W^
pi^dept^ I ^J^Quld have oo^e as^d A^icl W ni^aziQe— ftll

, 'MQh $^heii,my dear I but what ^o^ il; matter w^t joii
|)i),ViiQj4f thfy like it 1; YQuace always writing, writiijig, ^ear-
}ng yQurp^if5Piii.t. Wty shioulda'i %!U^^)^y,^ ^pgie .^jj^jblji^

•^OUj^|p.t; , :X01il. oughtn't to mip(i,rrrTrTT"., '.,![,^ ,t'i-.Y c.l> ul^uuhoil

ft ; v^* Butj X dPi windi," hft p?^d, with, a feeWe smUe. ** It js |kU I
lave t9 d<^» "^^P^ik*®?* & W» to me. vbat I am to ypiijyfiu
wrpuld hot like to see we neglected,, led iipon i iinski^i li;l^e jtlne
larpdigaJL'!, ,;::., ,: . .

' .*? Oir, Sjt^phen dear, how qm yov^ t»i^f^Jh^JP^ MghfMy*
#a4dhiBn^>ther.with teStT^ in her pyes^l^^^^^^ ; 1^ .. nj

rrif* '^S'fll* that, is what I feel, i^othi^r. I shall f|ay;e ^,feedm;
|}1mj14. vith, hiasks-rtea^mep^ings iEtpd repoijta pf; this f^n^ that
d^apeV and how much they ,giye. They i^ere afraiji; o^ xa^
qj^pe ; they daf ttd not grumble when X rejpcted , iM^d: cU(t Qut^;
j^Utrrritjis I whpfdi^re not now." ;

; M^, X^aldarve wisely made no reply. In her heart she, bad
UHp^ themagazifne better whpn it wa^, i^l abpujl^ the tearmeet:
ings audi the, progress of the good oausp. She; )iked tb^ bit^
^ I se^rif^n gog^^p, and, to know how much l^he difeiient phapeli
sttb^ciibiod, If hioh congregation had gi v^n its minister a ^lyer
ii^pptj^nd Wihich, had given him hift viispij^psj^. JJl tbi? ^9»
l^jt^reinteifesting tOiher than all Stephen V new-fi^ngled. dispusr
fion^, of pVibiic matters, his. «^«rn^s9i sbput* educatipQ apid
tbpU£|ht,f^ndiagrieat!many oth^ii things tb^t did, not concern
hds^mptbei?. i But she heldi tbisi opiiiiop, i^itblQ: beir^lf, ^Pdi was
ItPiipdlgnantr with tbe magazine commitjt^as/he^t QWlidesire.
Xhe two fell MWt for pome time, b^^wpg on wji|bh bw Uti^r*-
iwre^ j%|id she i^itb. her 90wing, till; .th?, oi^Iy serv^pt they bad
)f)fty,a nwden^ ;<Mj|edj?arp««;c#i^w^ Mtip girl,"i<?ftpi^i» i>Witb,a

tffiiyu Iftdpn, iwithj kniveSi and . f^r^iif) hy th^ Qjptjb/, fpPi ; tdipAejr.

The girl's eyes wejRpj red j und. i^^jpty fltreftfe ft<;r((?^jpft,».<j^be?k
%}4QW^ wh0re h«ri teai* bad) b«^&>^ wiiped^; aiWiajrT ^itb l^r apron.
nun Wba*«»->b». matter »•.;■ said M^^^^^e^.^ j,, .i. •■ .i^u^a -.li

If ^ms WLtttA.

18^

^Oti;^\esMt,iWB/V^ She

didn^ ouglii'to BpeaklBO; oh^ shedidii'tiHiglitilo; ■! Myimethes'i
ft lEleat-bohier in our i}ha|^l, lnid< I'ma member. .<^mimjibt^goaig
to ^ear it 1 We ain't folks to be pushed about." u i > t -rm

" Lay the cloth, and do it quietly/' said the bld> lady.> 1 And
with' a JBilent exasperation, such as onlv & woinai^ can- feely she
watched the unhandy creature. ** Thank heaTen, we ' •hall
want no girl in the country/' she said' tOMherself. But iwheb
her eye fell on Stephen, he was actually smildn^^smiHDgofe
the plea for exception, with that mingled sadneifs and .bitban
ness which it pain^ his mother to see. Thet eirl iwentxm
sniffing and sobbing all the same. She had^ already idriveni ibev
other mistress almost frantic in the kitchen. iMiss Jane' had
left a little stew, a savoury dish such as Stephen's j fanciful nip
petite required to tempt it, by the fire, i^o^lycomingitidi per-
fection. "The girl" had removed it to the fender, wheifeiit
was standing, growing cold, just at the critical moment vihkn
all its juices should have been blending under the gentle, ;geniAl
influence of the fire. Common cooks cannot' stew. Thejir, cai
boil, or <hey can bum ; but they never catch the; delicious im«^
dium between. Only such persons as cook for love, or«udl
as possess genius^ can hit this more ithan golden meani^ i^^kM
Jane combined both Characters. She did item nmoft andtjmf
tmore ; and' when she found hei' fra^ant dish set . asidei ifior tlift
sake of " the girl's " kettle, hfet feehngs can; bebut iaint]iji!)jii]»-
agined by the uninitiated. *'< I wish I could beat you ! " shftsjojil
with natural exaspera/tiion. 'And this to *' a joined msmbev^^
a seat'holder's daughter 1 Stephen kughed When thotaloMwas
repeated to him, with a laugh which ' was fiiU of bitterness
He tried to swallow his portion of the stew, but it went againftt
him. " It is the same everywhere," he; said ; M the \ same > sub*
jeotionof the wise to the foolish^ postponing of the b^ toi tha
Worst. Rubbish to pleas0><the jomed membersi^silenco.raii^
uselessness to us." ' /^

"Oh,'>Stephen 1" said'Mrs.' Holdane, ^'you knowI^amnM*
always of your way of thinking. After ailk there isi something
in it ; for when a girl is athuirch tcember^ 'she oan't be.iqaifas
without thought ;^ and when th^ negleotS'herworkitiis possible,
you knowj ^hat she imi^hti > 'b^ obcvpi^dv witk ibetlori. tAungs. • > il
don'tme*Df.t0 8af that iti»«ii;exe«seii'' •<>. -^u^ •■ ..n.u .i.u- ^nit

160

At ms OiiTtS.

MnMIshoalditliiDkinot, indeed," said Mias Jane. 'f<f'4i^ther
htLve. some one that knew her work, and ;did it^ thfin a doj^^a
^taroh members. A heathen to^iay would have been a9 much
use to me." .

I 1 *^ That may be very true," flaid her mother ; "hut I think,
considering Stephen's position, that such a thing shpuld not
be said by you or me. In my days a person stpod up for chap-
el, through thick and thin, especially when he had a relation
who was a minister. You think you are wiser, you young ones,
and Want to set up for being liberal, and think church as good
aS'chfipel, and the world, so far as I can make out, as good as
either. But that way of thinking would never answer me."
li! *f Well, thank heaven," said Miss Jane in atone of relief,
*^ in. the couFitry we shall not want any * girl/ "

V^liat is what I have been thinking,'' said Mrs, Haldane
with alacrity; and in the painful moment which interyened
while the table was being cleared and the room put in order,
ihe painted to herself a fancy of "the country/' She was a
Londoner bom, and had but an imperfect idea what the word
meant. It was to her a vague vision of greenness, parks and
trees and areat banks of lowers. The village street was a
thing she had no conception of. A pleasant dream of some
pleasant room opening on a garden and level with it, crossed
Aer mind. It was a cottage of romance, one of those cottages
which make their appearance in the stories which she half dis*
iapproved of, yet felt a guilty pleasure in reading. There had
Deen one, an innocent short one, with the gentlest of good
meanings, in the last number of Stephen's magazine, with just
such a cottage in it, where a sick heroine recovered. , She
thought she could see the room, and the invalid chair outside
the door, in which he could be wheeled into the garden to the
aeat under the apple-tree. Her heart overflowed with that
pleasant thought And Stephen might eet well 1 Such a joy
was at the end of every vista to Mrs. Haldane. She sat and
dreamed over this with a smile on her face while the room was
being cleared ; and h r vision was only stayed by the unusual
sound of Helen's knock at the door. . ^

->i<^Mt will be some one to, see. the house," said Mis9 Jane, and
she went away hurriedly, w^ith loud- whispered ins^ructipns tio
the girl, into " the front drawing-room/' W be ready to receive

x¥yi& OATBlk

any applicant ; so tliat Miss Jane was not in the room when
Beikm with lier heart beating, ^d Norah clinging close to hisf
as her shadow, was shown abruptly into the invalid's room.
"The girl" thrust her in without a word ot introduction or
explanation. Norali was familiar in the place, though her
mother was a stranger. Mrs. Haldane rose hastily ^ mcQt
them, and an agitated speech was on Helen's lips that she had
come to say good-bye, that she was going away, that they
might never meet again in this world, — ^when her eye caught
the helpless figure seated by the window, turning a half-sur-
prised, half-sympathetic look upon her. She had never seen
poor Stephen since his illness, and she was not prepared for
this complete and lamentable overthrow. It drove her own
thoughts, even her own sorrows, out of her mind for the mo-
ment. She gave a cr^ of nungled wonder and horror. She
had heard all about it, but seeing is so very different from
hearing.

" Oh, Mr. Hsddane I " she said, going up to him, forgetting
herself — with such pity in her voice as he had not heard for
years. It drove out of his mind, too, the more recent and still
more awful occasion he had to pity her. He looked at her
with sudden gratitude in his eyes. ; , .^j;

" Yes, it is a change, is it ^ot 'i " he said with a faint smile,
He had been an Alp-climber, a mighty walker, when she saiffj
him last.

Some moments passed before she recovered the shock. She;
sat down by him trembling, and then she burst into sudden
tears — not that she was a woman who cri§d much in her sor-
row, but that her nerves were affected beyond her power of
control

" Mr. Haldane, forgive me," she faltered. " I have nevcg,
seen you since — and so much has happened — oh, so much 1" ..,f

" Ah, yes," he said. " I could cry too — not for myself, for
that is an old story. I would have gone to you, hadlbeei|i
able — ^you know that; and it is very, very kind of you to
come to me."

" It is to say good-bye. We are going away to the country,
Norah and I," said Helen ; "there is no longer any place for
us here. But I wanted to see you, to tell you^-you seem — ^to
belong— -so much — ^to the old time."

16? AT HIS Gi,TB8S. ,

Ah, that old, tune! the time which spfi^ns aU hearty. |t
hiAd' not b^en p^(^ While It ^xblted^but ndW^oWis^r^^ !

Peih^|is 3t6|>h6h Haldane renien|i.bet^ It h4ttet than she .^Ijd ;
porhaps iti might eVdn crosa hk mind t^t in ihat pld^time's^^^
hadkibt 6itrea much tb see hiih^ had libt -^^elcomed him to' W
house with any pleasure. Biit he vras too generoUs to allpw
himself even to think such a thought, in her moment of dbwi
fall. The dejpths were more bitter to her even' thaif to hmi
He would not let the least sl^dow even in his mind fret he
in her great trouble. He put out his hand; and graspe^ %6Xk
with a sympathy which was more tilling than wotds. "r''^t , ";
'"Arid I hope your mother will forgive me too," she siiid
with some timidity. " I thought I had more (Command of my-
self. We could not ^o without saying g6od-bye."

** It is very kind — it is more than I have any right io expect,"
said iMrs. Haldane. " And we are going to the country too.
We are going to Dura, to a house Mr. Burton has kindly offered
to us. Oh, Mrs. Drummond, now I think of it, probably we
owe it to you."

** No," said Helen, startled and mystified ; and Jien she added
slowly, "I am going to Dura too."

" Oh, how very lucky that is ! Oh, how glad I am !" said
the old lady. " Stephen, do you hear ? Of course, Mr. Burton
is your cousin ; it is natural you should be near him. Stephen,
this is good newb for you. You will have Miss Norah, whpm
you were always so fond of, to come about you as she used to
ddi^that is, if her mamma will allow her. Oh, my dear, I am
s6 glad ! I must go and tell Jane. Jane, hei'e is something
that will make you quite happy. Mrs. Druniinond is coming too.

"She Vent to the dOor to sunurion her daughter, and llelen
was left alone with the sick man. She had not loved lUm in
the old time, but yet he looked a part of Robert now, and her
heart melted towards him. She was glad to have hihi tb her-
self, as glad as if he had beeii a brother. She pilt her hahd on
the airm of his chair, laying & sort of doubtfbl claim to him.
*< You have seen what they say)" she asked, looking in his face.

" Yes, ail ; with fury," he said, " with indignation ! Oh ttiy
6bd, that I should be chained here, and good lor nothing !

They might as well have said it of that child."
**0h, & it not tmxel, ctu^U" she s^d, '

ihfiiii

.(Ill

(..J

These half-dozen words were all 'that passed between them,
and yet they comforted her more [than all Dr. Maurice had
8ud. He had been indignant too, it is true ; but not with this
fiery, visionary wrath — ^the rage of the helpless, who can do
nothing. SirrA UMT'IAl: >

When Miss Jane came in with her mother they did the moi|t
of ^e tallpng».aQd Hcilen shruxik into her^^^Af ; but when^she hafl
risen tjo go ^iiray^ Stephen thrust a little packet into her ^an4«
" Bead it^ whei^ you go home/' he. said. It was his little di'S'
senting magazi^e> the insignificant brochure which she would
have scorped ;90 in the old days. With what tears, with what
swelling, pf her heart,, with what an agony of pride and love
and sorrow: she read it that night 1 .a

And so the old house was closed, and the old life ended.*
Henceforwfurd) eyerythipg that, awaited her w^s cold and sad

,! ■:-■! (/jiiit, mI'J •I'.-'t ••'•:, '■ ' ...,-. «.; ^^*Ui:- •

l,t;uii ^»J''^i' ,'»-::i(Oif i'-^"- •U-n'., - . . •_.'-. :-JiW/ !>/•/■ •'■■

, .•; -Uiut M»it .rri liw' -^ri 'nb^N \;}fIT .;•■ *

. r;j;;) Hid ■iiiiii'.yji uJ tKxftn ij^ t>lwntr
i :r. •,ain|ui;> u,] •.. /■ ;/^ '-1 " ,l>i.«i>^ ofi '\Mlno isoj, ImuI t "

"Jii ^>. / ■•ll I 'Ui'l

'-\ .. > '

V^ill

111 I' I

164

AT Htt aJL*nA,

. :! ' ^ilutli.

CHAPTER XVm.

ELEN had still another incident before her, hoiireyer, ere
she left St. Mary's Road. It was late in th6 afbanoon
_ when she went back. To go back at all, to enter the
dismantled place, and have that new dreary picture thrust into
her mind instead of the old itnage of home, was painful enough,
and Norah's cheeks were pale, and even to Helen the air and' the
movement conveyed a certain relief. They went into the quieter
part of the park and walked for an hour or two saying little,
liow and then poor Norah would be beguiled into a Uttl? mono^
logue, to which her mother lent a half attention — but that yas
alL It was easier to be in motion than to keep still, and it was
less miserable to look at the trees, the turf, the blue sky, than
at the walls of a room which was full of associations of happi-
ness.. They did not get home until the carriages were
beginning to roll into the park for the final round before
dinner. And when they reached their own house, there stood
a smart cabriolet before it, the horse held by a little tiger.
Within the gate two gentlemen met them coming down the
steps. One of them was a youth of eighteen or nineteen, who
looked at Helen with a wondering awe-stricken glance. The
other was — Mr. Golden. Norah had closed the garden door
heedlessly after her. They were thus shut in, the four con-
fronting each other, unable to escape. Helen could not believe
her eyes. Her heart began to beat, her pale cheeks to flush, a
kind of mist of excitement came before her vision. Mr. Golden
too, was not without a certain perturbation. He had not expected
to see any one. He took off his hat, and cleared his voice, and
made an effort to seem at his ease.

" I had just called," he said, " to express — ^to enquire — did
not know things had so far advanced. I would not intrude —
for the world.'

** Oh !" cried Helen, facing him, standing between him and
the door, " how dare you come here 1"

" Dare, Mrs. Drummoud 9 I — I don't understand-

>T mS CMLTIIB.

166

<< Yiom do understfOK^*' Micl«he» '' lMitfir-4tf«r better thttuwqr
one else does. And how dare you come to. look at ^our
handiwork i A man may be what you .are* and yet have a
little shame. Oh, you robber of the dead 1 if I had been any-
thing but a woman, you would not have ventured to look me in
the face."

He did not venture to look her in thefSAoe then ; he looked at
his companion instead, opening his eyes, and nodding hia head
slightly, as if to imply that she was crazed. " It is only a
woman* who^can insult a man with impunity," he said, " but I
hope I am able to make allowance for your excited feelings. It
is natural for a lady to blame some one,, I suppose. Savers, let
us go."

** Not till I have spoken," she cried in her excite-
ment " This is but a boy, and he ought to know whom he is
with. Oh, how is it that I cannot strike you down and trample
upon you 1 If I were to call that policeman he would not take
you, I suppose. You liar and thief! don't dare to answer me.
What, at my own door ; at the door of the man whose good
name lyou have slandered in his grave — oh my God ! who has
not even a .grave because you drove him miad ! — " she cried, her
eyes blazing, her cheeks glowing, all the silent beauty of her
lace growing splendid in her passion.

T^.youi^g man gazed at her as at a^ apparition, his lips
falling apart, his face paling. He had never heard such a voice,
never seen such an outburst of outraged human feeling before.

" Mrs. Prummond, this is madness. I — I can make allow-
ance for— for excitement "

" Be silent, sir," cried Helen, in her fury. " Who do you
suppose cares what you think 1 And how dare you to open
your mouth before me 1 It is I who have a right to speak.
And I wish there were a hundred to hear instead of one. This
man had absconded till he heard my husband was dead. Then he
came back and assumed innocence, and laid blame on him who —
could not reply. I don't know who you are ; but you are young,
and you should have a heart. There is not a liar in England
— not a thing so vile as this man. He has plundered the dead
of l^is ,good nm9e. Now go, sir. I have said what I have to
si^."

'^.Htfrn-. Vmmm^ m^p^ifOB you will MTe to ^asweisn-

166

At HIS GATES.

aometime von will re](»6iit of this/' dried Odld^n, Idieli^g his
preseiioe of mind. •

" I shall never repent it/' cried Helen. ** Go ; yon^lnake
the place you stand on vile. Take him away from m^ si^ht; I
have said what I had to say." '.;'"' ^f" ';

Mr. Golden made an effort to recover himself. He sti^ckhis
young companion onithe shoulder with an attempt at jocularity.

** Come, Rivers/' ne said, "come along, we are dismissed.
Don't you see we are no longer wanted here 1"

But the lad did not answer the appeal. He stayed behind
with his eyes still fixed upon Helen. ' '/

" Please, don't blame me," he said. " Tell me if I can do
anything. I — did not know "

** Thank you," she said faintly. Het excitement had failed
her all at once. She had put her arms round Norah, and was
leaning upon her, haggard and pale as if she Were dying. ** Thank
you," she repeated, with a motion of her hand towards the

door. • '•• ''' ' .v-rlij:,,; .; ,1H'

The youth stole out with a sore heart. He stood f6!^ a indtiient
irresolute on the pavement. The cab was his and not Gulden's ;
but that personage had got into it, and was calling him to
follow. '

" Thanks," said young Rivers, with the impetuosity of his
years. "Ishallnottrouweyou. Go on pray. I prefer to walk."

And he turned upon his heel, and went rapidly- away. He
was gone before the other could realise it ; and it was with
feelings that it would be impossible to describOj with a con-
sciousness that seemed both bodily and niental of having been
beaten and wounded all over, with a singing in his ears, and a
bewildered sense of punishment, that Golden picked up the
reins and drove away. It was only a few sharp words from a
woman's tongue, a thing which a man must steel himself to
bear when his operations are of a kind which involve the ruin
of families. But Helen had given her blow far more skilftilly,
far more effectively than she was aware of. She had clutched
at her first chance of striking, without any calculation of results ;
and the youth she had appealed to in her excitemetit might have
been any nameless lad for what she knew. It was Mr. Golden's
hard fate that he was not a nameless lad. He was Oyril Rivers,
Lord Eiveii' eldest son. The manager droVti on a little way,

AT HIS GATES.

f^'l\

slowly, and in great perturbation, ^^d.^^en ^ei 4f€|W,;iip ^
horse, and srwang to the ground* i;^, ,f r, ^f '^,,:,u-^.,.lr!/. .,,^,^
f V You had better go home," he said to tbe little groom.
' ' And then, still with that sense of bodily suffering as well as
mental, he made his way through Kensington Gardens to the
drive. He was a ^lan of fashion too, ^ well as, fk.^v^.pf
business— if he ever could hold up his head again. : i' , ' . >

Of (iourse he did hold up his head, and in an hour after was
ready to have made very ^ood fun of the "scolding" he had
received, and the impression it had made on hi$ young
companion.

"I don't wonder," he said ; " though her rage was all against
me, I could not help admiring hen You never can tell what
a woman is til! you see her in a passion. She was splendid.
Her friends ought to advise her to go on the stage."

" Why should she go on the stage ?" said some one standing

*f B^ause she is left a beggar. She has not a penny, ||
suppose."

** It is lucky that you have suffered so little when so many
people are beggared. Golden," said one of his fine friends.

This little winged shaft went right into the wound made. by
Helen's fiery lance, and so far as sensation went (which was
nothing) Mr. Golden had not a happy time that night.

Ab for Helen, she went in, prostrated by her own vehemencei
and threw herself down on her bed, and hid her face from the
light. After the first excitement was over shame seized upon
her. She had descended from her proper place. She had
flown into this outburst of passion and rage before her child.
She had lowered herself in Norah's eyes, as she thought —
though the child would not take her arm from her neck, nor
her hps from her cheek, but clung to her sobbing, " Oh, poor
mamma ! poor mamma !" with sympathetic passion. All this
fiery storm through which she had passed had developed
Norah. She had gained three or four years in a day. At one
bound, from the ehild who was a piece of still life in
the family, deeply beloved, but not needed, by the two who
were each other's companions, she had become all at once her
mother's only stay, her partizan, her supporter, her comrade-in-'
arms, it is impossible to over-estimate the difference this

»-'>l'(-.?««S=ns«8K*%*.' »KM«j'i*s-!

168

AT HIS GATES.

B(Uike8 in a child's, especially in a fffrYB life. It made of her
an independent, thinking, active creature all in a moment For
yean eyervthing had been said before her under the supposition
that Norah, absorbed in her book, heard nothing. But she had
heard a thousand things. She knew idl now without any need
of explanation, as well as so youne a mind could understand.
And she began to grope in her mind towards further knowledge,
to put things togetiier which even her mother had not thou^t
o£

" Do jovL know who the boy was, mamma V* she whispered,
after she had sat a long time on the bed. rilently consoling the
sufferer, " Oh, I am so glad you spoke, he will never forget it.
ISfow one more knows it besides you and me."
,, '^ There are others who know, dear" said Selen, who had
still poor Stephen's magazine in her hand.

"Yes," said Norah. "Mr Maurice and the people who
wrote to the papers ; but, me.mma, nobody like you and me.
Whatever they say we know. I am little, and I suppose I
shall always be little; but that does not matter. I shsll
soon be grown up, and able to help. And, mamma, this sh&ll
be my work as well as yours — I uiall never stop tail it is done
—never all my life !"

" Oh my darling ! " cried Helen, clasping her child in her
arms. It was not that she received the vow as the child
meant it, or even desired in Norah's opening life there should
be nothing of more importance than this eany self-devotion ;
but the sympathy was sweet to her beyond describing, the
more that the little creature, who had played and chattered by
her side, had suddenly become her mend. In the midst of
her sorrow and pain, and even of the prostration, and sensitive
visionary shame with which this encounter had filled her, she
had one sudden throb of pleasure. She was not alone any
more.

It was Helen who fell asleep that evening, worn out with
emotion, and weariness, and suffering. And then Norah rose
up softly, and made a pilgrimage by herself all over the desert-
ed house. She went through the conservatory, where of all
the beautiful things poor Robert had loved to see, there re-
mained 1 3thing but the moonlight which filled its emptiness ;
and into the studio, where she sat dowi^ oi]l the floor beside

▲T HIS QATSa

169

the easel, and clasped her arms round it and cried. She iraa

indulged

papa I " That is all Norah said to herself. But the recollec-
tion of all he had been, and of all that had been done to him,
surged over the child, and filled her with that sense of ^ecin-
tolerable which afflicts the weak. She could not bear it, yet
she had to bear it ; just as her mother, just as poor Haldane
had to bear — struggling vainly against a power greater than
theirs, acquiescing when life and strength ran low, sometimes
for a moment divinely consenting, accepting the wiU of God.
But it is seldom that even the experienced soul gets so far as
that.

Next morning Mrs. Drummond and her dau^ter went to
Dura. Their arrival at the station was very different from
that of Mr. Burton. No eager porters rushed at them as they
stepped out of the railway carriage ; the station-master moved
to the other side ; they landed, and were left on the platform
by themselves to count their boxes while the train swept on.
It was the first time it had ever happened so to Helen. Her
husband had always either been with her, or waiting for her
wherever she travelled. And she was weary with yesterday's
agitation and with all that had so lately happened. • Norah
came forward and took everything in hand. It was she who
spoke to the porter, and set the procession in order.

" Cab ? Bless you miss ! there ain't but one in the place,
and it's gone on a 'xcursion," he said, " but I'll get a wheel-
barrow and take 'em down. It ain't more than ten minutes'
walk."

*' I know the way," said Helen ; and she took her child's
hand and walked on into the familiar place. She had not
been there since her marriage ; but oh ! how well she knew it I
She put her crape veil over her face to hide her from curious
eyes ; and it threw a black mist at the same time over the
cheerful village. It seemed to Helen as if she was walking in
a dream. She knew everything, every stone on the road, the
names above the shops, the forms of the trees. There was one
great elm, lopsided, which had lost a huge branch (how well
she repieinbered I ) hy a thunderstorpi whe|i she w^ ^ phild ;

170

AT HIS GATES.

Wfts it all a dream t Everything looked like a dream except
Korah ; but Norah was real. As for the child, there was in
her heart a lively thrill of pleasure at sight of all this novelty
which she could not quite subdue. She had no veil of crape
over her eyes, and the red houses all lichened over, the glimpses
of fields and trees, the rural aspect of the road, the vision of
the common in the distance, all filled her with a suppressed
delight. It was wrone, Norah knew ; she called herself back
now and then and sighed, and asked herself how she could be
so devoid of feeling ; but yet the reaction would come. She
began to talk in spite of herself.

" I think some oae might come to meet us at the station,"
she said. ** Ned might have come. He is a boy, and can ao
anywhere. I am sure, mamma, we would have gone to male
them feel a little at home. Where is the Gatehouse ? What
is that place over there? Why there are shops — a draper's
and a confectioner's — and a library ! I am very glad there is a
library. Mamma, I think I shall like it ; is that the common
fittr away yonder ? Do you remember any of the people 1
I should like to know some girls if you will let me. There is
little Clara, of course, who is my cousin. Do you think we
shall live here always, mamma 1

Norah did not ask, nor, indeed, look for any answer to this
string of questions. She made a momentary pause of courtesy
to leave room for a reply, should any come; but Helen's
thoughts were full of the past, and as she made no answer
Norah resumed the strain.

" It looks very cheerful here, mamma ; though it is a village,
it does not look dull. I like the red tiles on the cottages and
all this red-brick ; perhaps it is a little hot-looking now, but in
winter it will be so comfortable. Shall we be able t^ get our
things here without going to town ? That seems quite a good
shop. I wonder what mxb. Burton and Clara dol But then
they are so rich, and we are — ^poor. Shall I be able to have
any lessons mamma ) Can I go on with my music % I wonder
if Clara has a governess. She will think it very .strange that
vou should teach me. But I am very glad; I Uke you better
than twen^ governesses. Mamma, wiU it make any difference
between Clara and me, them being so rich and us so
poor I"

At HIS OATfeS.

** Oh, Norah, I cannot tell you. Don't ask so iaany ques-
tions," said Helen.

Norah was wounded ; she did not give up her mother's hand,
but she loosed her hold of it to show her feelings. She had
been very sympathetic, very quiet, and respectflil of the grief
which iti its intensity was beyond her ; and now she seemed to,
herself to have a right to a little sympathy in return. She
could Understand but diml^ what was in her mother's mind ;
she did not know the assocmtions of which Dura was full ; and
it was hard to be thus stopped short in that spring of reno-
vating life. As she resided herself to silence, a feeling of in-
jury came over her; ana here, just before her eyes, suddenly
appeared a picture of life so different from hers. She saw a
band of children gathered about the gate of a house, which
stood at a short distance from the road, surrounded by shrub-
beries and distinguished by one great splendid cedar which
stretched its glorious branches over the high garden wall behind,
and made a point in the landscape. A lady was driving a
little pony-carriage through the open gate, whUe the children
stood watching and waving their hands to her. " Good-bye,
mamma," " Don't be lon^," " And mind you bring back Clara
with you," they were callmg to her. "With a wistful sense of
envy Norah gazed and wondered who they were, and if she
should ever know them. " Why are people so different 1" she
asked herself. She had nobody in the world but her mother,
lost behind that crape veil, lost in her own thoughts, who told
her not to ask questions, while those other little girls had a
smilihg mamma in a pretty pony-carriage, who was taking one
to drive with her, and was to bring Clara hatk to see tnem.
Which Clara? Was it the Clara who belonged to Norah, her
own cousin, to whom she had a better right than any one 1
Norah's heart sank as she realized this. No doubt Clara must
have many friends ; she could not stand in need of Norah as
Norah did of her. She would %e a stranger, an interloper, a
new little girl whom nobody perhaps would care to know.
Tears came to the child's eyes. She had been a woman last
night rising to the height of the tragedy in which her little
life was involved ; but now Nature had regained its sway, and
she was only twelve years old. It was while her mind was
occupied with these thoughts that her mother interrupted them,
suddenly pressing her hand,

AT HIS OATE&

/'Norah, this is our bouse, wheie we are to live," saiO
Helen. Her voice faltered, she held the child's hand as if for
support And now they were at their own door,
.^orah gazed at it with a certain dismay. She, too, like
|drs. 'SLaXfir.'r.pj, had her theory about a house in the country. It
must be like Soutblees, she thought, though without the river ;
Oir perha,ps as- they had grown poor, it might be soinediing a
liittle better than the lodge at Southlces, a Uttle cottage ; but
lihe had never dreamed <4 anything like this tail red •bride house
ITrhiph twinkled at her with all its windows. She was awed
and chilled, and a little frightened, as she crossed the road.
Susan was standing at the open door parleying with the porter
about their boxes, which she declined to admit till "the
family" came. The ono fear which possessed Susan's life, the
fesa: of being " put upon," was strong in her at this moment.
But she set the balance straight for Norah, by making a
sudden curtsey, which tempted the child so sorely to laugAter,
that her eyes began to shine and her heart to rise once more.
She ran up the white steps eagerly before her mother. "Oh,
mamma, I am first. I can say welcome to you," she said.

But the sight of the drawing-room, into which Susan ush-
ered them, solemnly closing the door after them, struck a mo-
ment's chill to Norah's heart. It seemed so strange to be thus
shut in, as if it was not their own house but a prison. It was
afternoon, and the sunshine had all gone from that side of the
road, and the graceful, old-fashioned room looked dim and
ghostly to eyes which had just come out of the light. The
windowt? all draped with brown and grey, the old-fashioned slim
grand piano ii^e comer ("I shall have my music," said Norah),
the black japsmned screen with its funny little pictures, the
.high carved mantelpiece with that square mirror which nobody
could see into, puzzled the child, at once attracting and repel-
ling her. There was another round, convex mirror Tike a shield,
on the side wall, but even thattodid not enable Norah to see her-
self, it only made a little twinkling picture of her in a vast per-
spective of drawing-room. Helen had seated herself as soon
a|S the door was shut, and there was she, too, in thd picture like
a lady come to call What a strar.ge, dim, ghostly place it was !
Tl^e bumping of the boxes as thev went i;p stairs was .^
(CpQ^ort to N'or^^ It was a mmi qf Ufo bireiikii^g Uie terrible

At BIS C^JLUBS.

178

silence. She aciked herself what would happen when it was
over. Should they fall under some charm and sleep there, like
the enchanted princess, for a hundred years ? And to think
that all this was within reach of that lady in the pony-carriage,
and of her children who waved their handt^ to her ! — so near,
yet in a different world.

** Mayn't we go and see the house, mamma )" Norah whis-
pered, standing close to her mother's side. '* Shouldn't you
hke to see where we are to sleep? Shouldn't you like to get
out of this room ? It frightens me so ; it feels like a prison.
Oh, mamma ! perhaps it would not look so strange — ^and so —
duU — and so — ^funny," cried Norah, feeling disposed to cry, " if
you would take your bonnet off."

Just at this moment there was a sound in the road which
stirred the whole village into life, and roused Norah. She ran
to the window to see what it was. It was an event which hap-
pened every evening, which all the children in Dura riui to see,
though they were so familiar with it. It was Mr. Burton driv-
ing his high-stepping bays home from the station. He had
come by th6 express, made on purpose for him and such as him,
which arrived half-an-hour later than the train by which the
Drummonds had come. Norah climbed up on her knees on a
chair to see over the little old-fashioned blinds. There was
some one seated by Mr. Burton ii^ the dog-cart, some one who
looked at the Gatehouse, as Mr. Burton did, while they dashed
past. At the sight of him Norah started, and from a little
fantastical child oecame a woman all at once again. It was the
young man who the day before had been with Mr. Golden at
St. MAr/s Road, he who had heard her father's' vindication,
and hi^ believed it, and " was on our side/' Norah felt, against
all the world.

i ji ' ilH'J^I. '

174

▲T HIS OfTEa

n i'.i ■ I

ill

CHAPTEE XIX.

. . mk ilsi ir.ib

I HERE is always a little excitement in a village over a new
inhabitant, and the Drummonds were not common
strangers to be speculated vaguely about. There were
many people in Dura who remembered Helen in her beauty
and youth. The next morning, when it became known that
she had arrived at the Gatehouse, the whole place burst into
gossip on the subject. Even the new people, the City people
who lived in the white villas near the station, were moved by
it. For poor Drummond's story was known everywhere, ar^d
his miserable fate, and the discussion in the newspapers, '^ven
here, in the quietness of the country, people took sides, and
public opinion was by no means so unanimous as poor Helen
had supposed. The papers had accepted her husband's guilt as
certain, but opinion was very much divided on the subject
among people who had means of knowing. " Burton ought to
have warned that poor fellow," one of the city gentlemen said to
another at the station, going up by the early train. " I would
not trust a simpleton in the hands of a smart man like Golden."

"Do you think he was a simpleton V' said the other.

" In business, yes " said the first speaker. " How could

he be otherwise 1 But, by Jove, sir, what a splendid painter!
I never saw anything I liked better than that picture of his at
the last Exhibition. Poor fellow ! And to put him in Golden's
h^,nd8, a man well known to be up to every dodge. I wonder
what Burton could be thinking of. I wonder he can look that
poor lady in the face."

"I should just like to find out how much Burton himself
knew about it," said the other, nodding his head.

"And so should I," the first speaker said significantly, as
they took their places in the train.

Thus it will be seen that the world, which Helen thought of
80 bitterly as all against her, was by no means so clear on the
subject. At the breakfast-table in the Rectory the conversa-
tion took a still more friendly tone.

▲T HIS GATES.

176

3r a new
common
3re were

" I hear that poor Mrs. Drummond has come t<;> the Gktte-
house,** said Mrs. Dalton. " I almost think' I saw her yester-
day — a tall woman, in a crape veil, with a little girV about
Mary's size. I shall make a point of calling the first time I go
out. Oh, George, what a sad, sad story ! I hope she will let
me be of use to her."

*' I don't see that you can be of much use," said her husband.
"She has the Burtons, of course, ito fall back upon. How
strange to think of Helen Burton coming back here ! I could
not have supposed it possible. So proud a girl ! And how
that man at Dura could ask her ! I suppose he feels the sweet-
ness of revenge in it. Everybody knew she refused him."

"Oh George, hush ! the children," cried Mrs. Dalton under
her breath.

" Psla ! everybody knows. What a difference it would have
made to her, though ! It is strange she should have chosen to
come and live in i^ht of his splendour."

"Oh, do you thwidc she cares about his splendour? Poor^
soul ! " said kind Mr* Dalton, with tears in her eyes. " She '
must have very different thoughts in her mind. Most likely
she wao glad of any shelter where she could hide her head,
after all the newspapers smd the publicity. Oh, George! it
must be doubly hard upon her if she was proud." . j

" Probably it was her pride that made her husband such' ii
fool," said the rector. " You women have a great deal to an-
swer for. If she drove him into that thirst for mOTiJV-makilig
— a thing he could know nothing about — — You iw.mey. are-
all fond of money — "

" For money's worth, George," said Mrs. Dalton humbly.
She could not deny the accusation. For her own part she
would have done anything for money — she witix her eight child-
ren, and Charlie's education so dreadfully on her mind.

"Oh, I don't say you are miserly," said the rector, who i^as'
a literary man of superior mind, and hated to be bothered bv
family cares, which incapacitated him for thought; "but whe^
a woman wants more than her husband can give her, what is
the unhappy man to do 1 Ne sutor ultra crepidam. Which meanr^
Mary "

" I have heard it before," said his wife meekly. " I think I
know what it means,"

'•a

176'

AT His OATBa

'''Thenycu see what comes of it/' said Mr. Dalton. ''I
don^t believe a word that is in the papers. I seldom do. He
weiii and got himself invulvea and bamboozled. How was he
to know what he was'^oing 1 I don't blame poor Drummond,
but I am not so sure it was not her fault."

At the great house the talk was different ; there was no dis-
cussion of the rights or wrongs of the question. Mr. Burton,
indeed, preferred not to speak of Mr. Drummond ; and young
Mr. Bivers, who had come down with him on the previous
night, had got no opening to report the scene of which he had
been a spectator. They were early people, and though they
had entertained a large party the night before, their breakfast
was earlier than that at the Rectory. They were all out on the
lawn, visitors, children, dogs, and all, while Mr. Dalton drank
his coffee. Ned was busily employed training the Skye to
jump over a stick, an exercise which was not much to Shaggy's
taste ; while the big pointer (who was only in his babyhood,
though he was so big, and was imbecile, as puppies are), looked
OIL and made foolish springs and vaults about his clever brother.
Malta^ in his blue ribbon, kept close to Mrs. Burton's side, and
looked on at the performance with the contemptuous toleration
of a superior being ; and Clara, also decked with blue ribbons,
hung by her mother too.

"You had better come with me and see Helen," said the
heiEul of the house. " I told you she arrived last night."

"Now ! " said Mrs. Burton, with dome surprise. She had
her gardening gloves on and a basket in her hand for flowers.
These she would have laid down at once, had it been only a
walk to the station which was in question ; but this was a dif-
ferent affair.

" Yes ; why not now 1" said her husband with that roll of
wealth and comfort in his voice. " We are relations, wo need
not stand upon ceremony. You mean to call on her some time,
I suppose."

** Oh, certainly, I shall call ; but not at this hour, Mr. Bur-
ton. I have only seen her oace. Familiarity would be imper-
tinence in me."

** Pshaw, nonsense ! one of your fantastic notions," he said.
** I have seen her more than once, and I can't afford to stand
on ceremony. Come along. I am going there now."

AT HIS GATES.

177

" Then I think you should ^'mmediately," said Mrs. Bur-
ton, looking at her watch, " . will be too late for the
train. Clara, papa will not us this morning ; we can go
for some flowers. You will b oack by the usual train 'i I mil
pick you up at the station, if you like, for I have some calls to
make to-day."

" As you please," said her husband ; " but I can't understand
why you should cross me, Clara, about my cousin. You don't
mean to say," he added with a laugh, " that you have any —
feeling on the subject ? That you are — ever so little — piqued
about poor Helen ? I shouldn't like to use tht other word."

Clara Burton looked at her husband very calmly. She was
not offended. It was human nature; men were known to
possess this kind of vanity, though it was so strange. " I am
not at all piqued," she said ; " but I like to be civil. I don't
suppose Mrs. Drummond and I will be moved to rush into
each other's arms all at once, and I don't wish to look as if I
paid her less respect because she is poor. If you are going
there, you ought to go immediately. You will be late for the
train."

" Confound your composure !" Mr. Burton said to himself, as
he went down the avenue.

It would have pleased him had his wife been a little discom-
posed. But, after a while, he took comfort, saying to himself
that Clara was a consummate little actress, but that she could
not take him in. Of course, she was nettlod by the presence of
his old love, and by his haste to visit her : but she was proud,
and would not she ^^^ it. He felt a double triumph in the sense
that these two women were both affected, and endured, for his
sweet sake, a certain amount of pain. He set out his chest
more than ever, and held up his head. Now was his moment
of triumph over the woman who had once rejected him. Had
he been able to induce her to come to Dura while she was still
prosperous, the triumph would have been sweeter, for it would
have been unmingled with any tinge of regretful or remorseful
feelings ; but as it was it was sweet. For the first time she
would see him in his full importance, in all his state and splen-
dour, she would see him from the depths of her own humiliar
tion, and the force of a contrast greater than he had desired,
more complete even than he had dieamed, must already have
L

.;!)

m i m t m

178

AT HIS GATES.

' If

flashed upon her. Yes, now she would see what she had lost
— ^what a mistake she had made. He meant to be very kind ;
he would have given her anjrthing she chose to ask for, if she
but showed the least sign of penitence, of clearer perception, of
being aware of what she had lost. There was nothing which
her cousin would not have done for Helen ; but he could not
resign his own deUghtful consciousness of triumph. Under
its genial influence, he was overflowing with goodness and kind-
ness.

" What ! come out for a little sunshine, old John," he said
to the Old man at the lodge, who was seated basking in the
warmth « m ihe bench at his door. " Good for the rheumatics,
ain't it, f day like this 1 I envy you, old fellow, with nothing
to do f.nt it by your door in the sun and sniff you: flowers ;
yoii ftre befcter off than I am, I can tell you."

** -.V^ •')' ' master, it's fine for me; but you wouldn't think
mifcii 0!»'\ vourself, if you had it," said old John.

Mr. B ut< 1 went on laughing and waging his hand, amused
with the old man's impudence.

" If I had it myself," he said, with a smile, " I ! " The

thought ticklefl him. It was hard to believe that he himself, a
man in the prime of life, growing richer every day, was made
of the same cLiy as old John ; and yet of course it was so, he
admitted good humouredly. His mind wsls full of his own
benevolence and kind-heai-tedness as he pursued his way to
visit his cousin. What quantities of people were dependent
upon his will and pleasure — upon his succour and help ! his
servants, so many that he could scarcely count them ; the clerks
in his office ; the governess who taught Clara, and who in her
turn supported her mother and sisters ; and then there was
old Stephenson in the village, in his decay, who had once been
in Mr. Burton's office ; and hif eld ntvase ; and the poor Joneses
and Bobinsons, whose boys he had taken in as errand boys.
He ran over this list with such a pleasant sense of his goodness,
that his face shone in the morning sunshine. And at the head
of all, first of his pensioners, chief of his dependents — Helen !
Mr Burton laughed half aloud, and furtively rubbed his hands.
Yes, yes, by this time there could be no doubt she must have
found out her mistake.
Helen had got up that moi'uing with the determination to

AT HIS GATES.

179

put grief nway from the foreground of her life, and resume
such occupations as remained to her. Norah's books had been
got out, and her music, and some work — small matters which
made a difference in the ghostly drawing-room already, and
brought it back to life. Helen was standing by the table ar-
ranging some flowers when Mr. Burton came in. Norah had
gathered them almost before the dew was off them, and stood
by her mother watching her as she grouped them together.

" I wish I could arrange flowers as you do, mamma," Norah
was sa3ing admiringly. " How nice it must be to be able to do
everything one tries ! They will not come right if / do it. You
are like the fairy that touched the feathers with her wand, and
they all come together as they ought. I wonder how you do
it. And you never break anything or spoil anything ; but if I
only look at a vase it breaks."

Norah was saying this with a rueful look when Mr. Burton's
smart summons came to the door ; and the next minute he had
come in, bringing so much air with him into the room, and mo-
tion, and sense of importance. Helen put the flowers aside
hastily and gave him her hand.

'' So you are making use of the garden," he said, taking note
of everything with an eye of proprietorship; "quite right,
quite right. I hope you will make yourselves quite at home.
It is a funny old house, but it is a good style of a place. You
need not be ashamed to receive any one here. And I have no
doubt you will find everybody very civil, Helen. I have let
the people in Dura know you are my cousin. That, though I
say it that shouldn't, is a very good passport here."

" I hope you will not take any trouble about us," said Helen
hastily. "All I want is to be quiet. I do not care for civili-
ties."

" But you prefer them to incivilitiea, I hope," said Mr. Bur-
ton. " My wife thinks 1 am wrong to come in this uncere-
monious way to call. I wanted her to uonio with me, but she
would not. You ladies have your own ways of acting. But I
felt that you would be mortified if you saw me pass the door.**

"Oh no. I should not have been mortified."

" I will take care you shan't," he said, the roll in his voice
sounding more full of protection and benevolence than ever.
<' I have not much time now. But, my dear Holeui remember

mmm

180

AT HIS OATE&

mU'

lijii : ill

•.illi

that I am always at yonr service — always. I have mentioned
you to ail the nicest people. And I hope very soon to see you
at the House. I shoula not have brought you here, I assure
you, without intending to be a friend to you in every way.
You may rely upon me."

" You are very kind," was all Helen could say.

" I want to be kind. You cannot please me better than by
asking me for what you want. Tell me always when your
mother wants anything, Norah. There now, I won't say any
more ; you understand me, Helen, I have a few things in my
power, and one of them is to make you comfortable. When
you have time to see about you, you will perceive that things
have gone very well with me : not that I intend to boast ; but
Providence, no doubt, has been very kind. My wife will call
this afternoon, and should you like a drive or anything, I am
sure Clara "

" Please don't trouble. I would rather be quiet. You for-
get," said Helen, with a momentary sharpness in her voice,
" that Providence, which has been so kind to you, has been
hard on us."

" My dear Helen ! You are too good and pious, I am sure,
not to know that we ought not to repine."

" I don't think I repine, and I am sure you mean to be kind ;
but oh ! if you would take pity on me, and let me alone "

It was all she could do to keep from tears. But she would
not weep before him. -Her jealousy of him and distrust were
all coming back. Instinctively she felt the triumph in his
voice.

" Poor Helen !" said Mr. Burton, " poor girl ! I will not
trouble you longer just now. You shall not be bothered.
Good-bye ; trust to me, and I will take care of you, my poor
dear !"

It was ludicrous, it was pitiable ; she scorned herself for the
impression it made upon her ; but how could she help it 1 She
felt that she hated Reginald Burton, as he stood before her in
all his wealth and comfort, patronising and sooth ijg her.
When he was gone, she rushed up to hsr room, that Norah
might not see her weakness, too weep a few hot, buraiiig tears,
and to overcome the wild, unreasonable anger that swelled in
her heart. It was his moment of triumph. Perhaps Helen

AT HIS OiTSa.

181

felt it adl the more becaose, deep down in her heart, she had a
consciousness that she too had once triumphed over him, and
rejoiced to feel that she could humble him. This was a hard
punishment for such an old girlish offence ; but still it felt like
a punishment, and added a sting to everything he did and said.
And whether it was at that moment or at a later period, she
herself could not have told, but a sudden gleam came across
her of some words which she had once read somewhere — ** Bur-
ton and Golden have done it." Whence came these words Y
had she dreamt them t had she read them somewhere 1 They
came before her as if they had been written upon the wall*
Burton and Golden ! Was it true ) What could it mean t

Mrs. Burton called in the afternoon. She had Clara with
her, and what was still more remarkable, young Mr. Rivers,
who was staying in the house, but who up to this time had
made no mention of the scene he had witnessed. Perhaps it
was for lack of an opportunity, perhaps because he did not
know how far it would be safe to mention Helen — ^whom he
had heard spoken of as a relative, yet not with the feeling
which moved his own mind when he thought of her. Cyru
Bivers wau but a big boy, though he began to think himself a
man, and Helen had moved him to that sudden fantastic vio-
lence of admiration with which an older woman often inspires
a boy. He was eager to go with Mrs. Burton to call. He
would walk down with her, he said, and continue his walk
after the carriage had picked her up; and in his heart he
said to himself that he must see that woman again. He was
full of awe and enthusiasm at the thought of her. She was to
him like the heroine of a tragedy, of a story more striking than
any tragedy he had ever heard of ; for this was real, and she was a
true woman expressing her natural sentiments, forgiving nothing
It seemed to bring the youth, who was all thrilling with natu-
ral romance, within that charmed inner circle of emotion and
passion which is, though it is seldom visible, the centre and
heart of life.

But Helen bore a very different aspect when she waited to
receive Mrs. Burton's call from that which she bore at the door
of St. Mary's Road, confronting Golden. Her flush of colour
and glow of energy and vehemence were gone. She was seat-
ed, pale and silent, by the table near the window, with her

182

AT HIS GATES.

dead white cap encircling her fiice, and some needlework in her
hand. It was not the same Mrs. Drummond, was young Riv-
ers* first disappointed thought. And when she invited the party
to ait down, and b^an to talk about the weather and the cc\^n-
try round, he was so bewildered that he longed to steal a^af.
The two ladies sat opposite to each other, and said the sort of
things which all ladies say when they call or are called upon.
Helen's tone was low, and her voice fell ; but these and her
black dress were the only things that made it apparent that uay-
thing had happened to her. It was only when this little ar-
tificial conversation flagged and a pause occurred that the real
state of affairs became even slightlv visible. The momentary
silence fell heavy upon people who had so much on their minds;
and while they all sat motionless, the little mirror on the wall
made a picture of them in little, which looked like a caricature,
full of humorous perception and significance. Mrs. Burton had
been hesitating as to what she should say. Helen was a study
to her, of which she had as yet made nothing ; and perhaps it
was as much from curiosity as any other feeling that she at last
introduced a subject more interesting than the weather or the
landscape. It was after a second pause still more serious than
the first.

**It must be very strange to you coming back to Dura
after all that has happened. It must be — ^hard upon you,"
she said.

" Yes ; it is hard." Helen could not trust herself to many
words.

" If there is anything in which I can be of use," Mrs. Bur-
ton began, " will you let me know ? If there is anything that
can make it less painful for you, I should be very glad to be
of use."

Mrs. Drummond made no reply : she gave a little bow, and
went on with the needle-work she held in her hands, but not
as if she cared for that. She was not like what he thought,
but yet young Rivers got up with a certain tremulous awe and
approached her. She had not recognized him. She turned
her eyes upon him wondering what he could have to do with
her. Her heart was steeled to encounter all those words of
routine which she knew would have to be said — ^but who was
this boy 1

AT HIS GATES.

183

**JI thiiik I will go now," he said hastily to Mrs. Burton ;
and then helowerea his voice.

"May I say just one word) If I can ever do anything to
set things ri^ht, will you let me know 1 I shall never forget
what you said — on Tuesday."

" On Tuesday ) " Helen repeated, in her great surprise look-
ing at him. She ran over Tuesday's pro«e^ings in ner mind :
at first in vain, and then a little flush came over her face.
" Ah," she said, " It was you who came with — Mr. Golden. I
remember now."

^' But I shall never be with him again," said the vouth with
energy, which brought the responsive bloo^ to nis cheeks.
" Of that you may be sure. I am Cyril H '•s. I am not
much good now, but I might be — afterwards. iii you remem-
ber me? Will you let me serve you if ever I can 1 "

" Thanks," said Helen, putting out her hand, with a sudden
softness in her voice.

The lad was young, romantic, chivalrous. She was to him
like some majestic dethroned queen in her sorrow and wronged
estate. He stooped down, and touched her white fingers with
his lips, aud then without looking round, turned, and went
away. His impulsive generous words, his fanciful pledge of ea-
gerness to help her went to Helen's heart. She had not ex-
pected this, and it surprised and touched her. She was not
conscious for a moment of her visitor's steady, investigating
glance.

" What a romantic boy ! " said Mrs. Burton, with a smile.

" Yes," said Helen, and she called herself back with an ef-
fort. *' But romance sometimes does one good. It is a sur*
prise at least."

*' At that age it does not matter much. I did not know you
knew the Eiverses," said Mrs. Burton. *•' This is the eldest
son, to be sure ; but since the late misfortune they are quite
poor. They have not much in their power. "

She said this with a charitable motive. It seemed to her as
if Helen must mean something by it. Everybody appeared to
mean something in the eyes of this philosopher. And she was
a Uttle moved by the misfortunes of the woman beside her.
She thought it kind to warn her not to waste her efforts.
Helen, on her side, did not know in the least what Mrs. Bur-

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AT 108 OATia.

ton meant ; did not snppote she meant anything indeied^ and
sat patient, accepting this speech with the othera as an effort
to make conversationy not ungrateful to Mrs. Burttm^ buti won-
denng when dhe would go away. -r lliv >.)^nti i

Meanwhile Cyril Rivers hastened out Ihll of emotion. He
took the wrong; turn in going outy and before he kne#, found
himdelf in the garden^ ifniere the two girls wetet " making ac-
quaintance/' as Mrs. Burton had bidden them do^ Olara was
big and fair, with her father's full foixn, and a beautiful com-

Slezion, the greatest possible contrast to little Norah, with her
ght figur^ and faint rose tints. But Norah at this moment
was flushed and angiy, looking as her mother had done that
memorable evening at St. Mary's Koad.
. "Oh, do come here, Mr. Rivers," said Clara, "Norah is so
cross. I only said what papa says so often-^that it would be
wretched to Uve in the country without a carriage or a pony
or anything. Don't you think so too 1 " . \ .

: Ncorah flushed more deeply than ever. >^Iam not cii^dss.
We did not come to live in the country for pleasure, and what
does it matter to us about carriages and ponies! We are
poor." ■•.'■[ -r;

- '* And so am I," daid the boy, with that instinctive adoption
of "our side" which ^orah had attributed to him. He
thought how pretty she was as she lifted her brown eyes.
What a pretty child ! and he was approaching twenty, a man,
and his heart yearned over the helpless and sorrowful " I
shall have to sell my horses and go afoot ; but I don't. think I
shall be wretched. Everybody cannot be rich like Mr. Burton,
you know.?*

" But you are always Lord Rivers's son," said Clara. You
ean have what you likti everywhere. I tbink it is very cross
of Norah not to care."

And Mr Burton's daughter, foiled in her first attempt to
secure her own cousin's envy and admiration, looked as if she
would like to cry. Young Kivers laughed as he went away at
her diiscomfiture. As he turned to find the right way <^ exit,
he looked back upon them with an unconscious comparison.
He did not know or think what was Norah Drumn^ond's de-
scent. He took her unconsciously as the type of a higher class
impoverished but not fallen, beside that small representative of

▲t HIS oyiTCa

185

the nowoeama riehes. And all his mipathies were on the nde qf
the former. He pulled a little white rosebud from a tree as h« ^
passed, and put it into his coat with a meaning which was
partly real and partly fantastic. They were poor, they were
injurod, and wronged, and ill ttontU^i He put their colours,
as it were, in his helmet. Foolish boy, fuU of romance ai\d
nonsense ! one day or other in theiv caule he lelt hd H^ffit
couch his lance. ^ ,. , „

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1S6

AT filS GATES.

CHAPTEE XX.

[HE next day after Mrs. Barton's carriage had been seen
at Helen's door a great many people called on Mrs.
Drummond — all " me nicest people " — some who had
known her or known about her in the old days, some who
came because she was Mr. Burton's cousin, and some who took
that means of showing their sympathy. The door was besieg-
ed ; and Susan, half flattered by the importance of her posi-
tion, half-alarmed lest this might be the commencement of the
system of putting upon which she dreaded, brought in the
cards, gingerly holding them in a hand which she had wrap-
ped up in her apron, and giving a little sketch of the persons
represented. There was the doctor's wife, and the major's
lady, and Mrs. Ashurst from the Row, and " them London
folks," all of whom were sensible enough to make their advances
solely in this way. Mrs. Dalton was the only person admitted.
Helen was too well brought up, she had too much sense of the
proprieties of her position, to shut her door against the clergy-
man's wife — who brought her husband's card, and explained
that he would have come too but for the fear of intruding too
early.

*• But I hope you will let us see you," the kind woman ad-
ded. " We are such near neighbours. My eldest little girl is the
same age as yours. I think we should understand each other.
And I have such a busy life — ^to be able to run across and talk
thin^ over now and then would be such a comfort to me."

** 1 ou mean it would be a comfort to me," said Helen, " the
sight of a kind face."

" And Norah will come and see my Mary. They can take
their walks together, and amuse each other. It is such a plea-
sure to me," said Mrs. Dalton, " to look across at these Win-
dows, and think that you are here." She had said much so with
the amiable power of make-believe, not exactly deception,
which an affectionate temper and her position as clergy-woman
made natural to her — when she caught Helen's eye, and nature

AT HIS GATES.

isr

saddeiilj hadthemasteir. *' Oh, Mrs. Dnmunond, how I babble I
I am so sorry, so sorry, she said, and her eyes ran oyer with ^
tears, thou^ Helen £d not weep. It is not easy to repel such
a'visitor. They grew friends at that first interview, while
Korah stood by and made her observations too.

'' May I go and see Mary 1 " she asked, when Mrs. Dalton
had gone. ** I think I shaU like her better than Clara Burton.
How funny it must be to have so many brothers and sisters,
mamma ; andl who never had either abrotherora sister ! Ishould
like to have had just one — a little sister with blue eyes. But,
then, if you had been very fond of her, fonder than of me, I
should not have liked that. Perhaps, on the whole, a brother
would have been the best. A boy is a change — ^they are use-
less, and yet they are nice— for a long walk for instance. I
wish I had had a big brother, older than me — quite old — ^al-
most grown up. How funny it would have been ! I wonder
what we should have called him. If he had been as big as Mr.
Bivers, for instance-^that would have been nice for you too."

Helen smiled, and let the child run on. It was the music to
which her life was set. Norah's monologue accompanied every-
thing. Sometimes an answer was necessary, which interrupt-
ed the strain, but generally a word, a smile, or a monosyllable
was enough. She went on tveaving her big brother out of her
imagination ; it was more deligh&d than speculating about
Mary Dalton.

" I am sure it would have been nice for you too," she said.
" He would have given you his arm when you were tired, and
looked after the luggage, and locked all the doors at ni^ts.
The only thing is, it would have been a great expense. When
people are poor, I suppose they can't afford to have boys. They
want so many things. But yet he would have been nice all the
same, I hope he would have had a pretty name ; not so short
as Ned, and not so common as Charlie. Charlie is the eldest
of the Daltons — such a big boy. Oh, I wonder what our boy's
name would have been 1 Do you like Oswald, mamma, or
Eustace 1 Eustace sounds like a priest or something dreadful-
ly wise. I don't like solemn boys. So long as he was big and
strong, and not too clever. But oh, dear, dear, what is the
use of talking 1 We never can have a big boy, I suppose 1 I
must be content with other girls' brothers. I shall never have
one of my own."

■'y^-\ir*--^''*^;;^'V.!8)U.;

188

AT HIS OATEIt.

III

■m

t'v m

** The less yoa hare to do -^th other girls' btothdra the bet-
ter, Norah," said Helen, beguiled into a smila

** I do not care for them, I am sure," said Norah, "with dig-
nity ; "though I don't dislike gentlemen, mamma — quite old
gentlemen, like Dr. Maurice and Mr. flaldane, are very nice.
And I should like to have had — ^Mr. Rivers, for instance
—-for a big brother. I raider think, too, I like Ned Burton
better than Clara. It is more natural to hear a boy talk of
ponies and things. She never thinks of anything else — dogs,
and horses, and carriages, and the fine things she has. It is
not polite to talk of such things to people who have not got
them. I told her I did not care for ponies, nor grapes, nor hot-
house flowers ; and that I woidd rather live in London than at
the House. And, oh, so many stories, mamma ! Is it wrong
to tell a little fib when you don't mean any harm 1 Just a
little one, when people boast and make themselv^es disagreeable
— ^and when you don't mean any harm 1 " \

" It is always wrong to tell fibs ; and I don't know the dif-
ference between big ones and little ones," said Helen.

" Oh, mamma, but I do ! A big story is — ^for instance. If
I were to say Susan had stolen your watch, that would be a
wicked lie. But when I say I don't care for grapes, and would
not like to have a pony, it isn't quite true, but then it makes
Clara be' quiet, and does nobody any harm. I am sure there
is a great difference. It would be very nice to have a pony,
you kno^. Only think, mamma, to go cantering away across
the common and on the turf ! But I would not give in to say
that I should like to be Clara, or that she was better off than
me!"

Norah's casuistry silenced her mother. She shook her head,
but <Ud not say anything. Something of the same feeling was,
indeed, in her own mind. She, too, would have liked to be
contemptucfus! of the luxuries which her neighbours dangled be-
fore her eyes. And Norah resumed her monologue. The
mother only partially heard it, waking up now and then to
give the necessary response, but carrying on all the time her
own separate thread of cogitation, which would not shape itself
into words. The old parlour, with its brown-grey curtains
and all its spindle4egged furniture, enclosed and seemed to
watch the' human creatures who disturbed the silence. A room

i< ' ip

AT HIS OATBa

189

which has long been onoccnpied, and which is too large for its
new inhabitants, has often this spectator look. The pictured ,
looked down from the walls and watched ; up in the little round
mirror two people in a miniature interior, who were in reality
reflections of the two below, but looked quite different, fflanced
down upon them, and watched also. The sky looked in
through the five windows, and the lime-trees in front kept* tap-
ping with their branches against the panes to show that they
were looking on. All the rest were clandestine, but the lime-
trees were honest in their scrutiny. And in the midst of it the
mother and daughter led their subdued lives. Norah's voice
ran through all like a brook or a bird. Helen was mostly si*
lent, saying little. They had a roof to shelter them, enough
of daily bread, the kindness of strangers outside, the rude but
S3rmpathetic kindness of Susan within. This was more, a great
deal more, than often falls to the lot of human wrecks after a
great shipwreck. Korah, after a little while accepted it as the
natural rule of life, and forgot every other ; and Helen was
silent, though she did not forget. The silence of the house,
however, by times oppressed the child. She lay awake in the
great bedroom up-stairs, afraid to go to sleep till her mother
should come ; and even in the daylight there were moments
when Norah was afraid of the ghostly drawing-room, and could
not but feel that weird, aged women, the Miss Pagets, whom
her mother had known, or some of the old Harcourts were
watching her from behind the doors, or from the shade of the
curtains. There was a deep china closet beside the fireplace with
one particular knot in the woodwork which fascinated Norah,
and made her feel that some mysterious eye was gazing at her
from within. But all these fancies dispersed the moment Mrs.
Drummond appeared. There was protection in the soft rustle
of her gown, the distant sound of her voice. And so the rou-
tine of life — 9. new routine, but soon firmly established, sup-
porting them as upon props of use and wont, began again.
There were the lessons in the morning, and Norah's music, and
a long walk in the afternoon ; and they went to bed early, glad
to be done with life and another day. Or at least Helen was
glad to be done with it — ^not Norah, to whom it was the open-
ing of the story, and to whom once more the sunshine began ta
look as sweet as ever, and each new morning was a delight.

190

AT HIS OATB&

A few weeks after their arrival the Haldanes followed them.
Miss Jane had written beforehand besging for information
about the house and the journey ; anoit was only then that
Helen learned, with a mortification she could scarcely overcome,
that the Gatehouse was to be their refuse too. This fact so
changed the character of her cousin's kindness to her, that her
pride was with difficulty subdued to silence ; but sho had
sufficient self-control to say nothing — ^pride itself coming to
her aid.

** Perhaps yon would be so good as to send me a line with a
few pai^iculftrs/' Miss Jane wrote. " I should li]^e to know for
myself and mother if there is a good minister of our denomina-
tion, and if you would mention the price of meat, and how
much you are giving for the best butter, I should be very much
obliged. I should like to know if there is a good room on the
0X>imd-floor that would do for Stephen, and if we could hay:e a
Bath-chair to bring him down in from the station, for I am very
distrustful of cabs. Also about a chuwoman, which is very
important. I am active myself and always look after the wash-
ing, so that one strong handy woman to come from six in the
morningtill two would do all that I should require."
:-r: Mrs.T)rummond made an effort and answered all these ques-
tions, and even walked to the station to see them arrive. It
was a mournful sight enough. She stood and looked on with
her heart aching, and saw the man whom she had known so
different litted out of the carriage and put into the invalid
chair. She saw the look of dumb anguish and humiliation in
his eyes which showed how he felt this public exposure of his
weakness. He was very patient ; he smiled and thanked the
people who moved him : yet Helen, with her perceptions
quickened by her own suffering, felt the intolerable pain m the
other's soul, and went away hurriedly, not to afflict him further
by her presence. What had he done 1 How had this man
sinned more than others t All the idlers that lounged about
and. watched him, were they bettor or dearer to God than
he was i Mrs. Drummond was half a Pagan, though she did
not know it. She hurried away with a miserable sense that it
was past bearing. But Stephen set his lips tight and bore it.
He bore the looks of the vUlage people who came out to their
doors to look at hinx as he paaaed, ; As for his mother and sister

AT HIS OA.TB&

191

they scarcely remarked his silence. Thej were so happy that«
eveiythinff had gone off so well, that he had borne it so easily, a

** I don^ thinK he looks a bit the worse," said Miss Jane.

They were the tenderest, the most patient of nurs^^ but they
had accepted his illness long ago as a matter of course. From the
moment he was placed in the chair, and so off their mind, as it
were, the luggage came into the ascendant and took his ^laoe^
They had a wonderful amount of parcels, mostly done up in
brown paper. Mrs. Haldane herself carried her pet canary in its
cage, tied up in a blue and white handkerchief She was more
anxious about this for the moment than about her son. The pro-
cession was one which caught everybody's eye. First two wheel-
barrows withthe lusgage, the first of which was occupied by Ste-
phen's bed and chair, the other piled up with boxes, among, the
rest two portmanteaus of his own, on which.he could still read, on
old labels which he had preserved with pride, the names of Na-
ples, Florence, and Rome. Had he been actually there, he who
was now little more than a piece of luggage himself ? Miss Jane
divided her attentions between her brother and the second
wheel-barrow, on which the brown-paper parcels were tumbling
and nodding, ready to fall. His mother walked on the other
side, holding fast by the parcel in the blue-and-white handker-
chief. Mrs. Burton, who was passing in her carriage, stopped
to look after them. She, too, had known Stephen in better
days. She did not ask passionate questions as Helen was doing ;
hut she felt the shock in her way, and only comforted herself
by thinking that the feelings get blunted in such unfortrnate
cases, and that no doubt other people felt more for him thai; uo:
felt for himself.

But notwithstanding the callousness which use had brought,
there was no indifference to Stephen's comfort in the hands of
his attendants. Everything was arranged for him that evening
as if he had been surrounded by a crowd of servants. When
Helen went to see him he was seated by the window with
flowers upon his ta>>le and all his papers arranged upon it. H^e
flowers were not very choice ; they were of Miss Jane's selec-
tion, and marigolds and plumy variegated grass looked beout^l
in her eyes. Yet nothing but love could have put everything
in its place so soon, and metamorphosed all at once the dining^
room of the Gatehouse into Stephen's room^ wherQ Qv^thing

192

AT HIS OATBS.

bore a Mferenee to him and was arranged for his special comfort.
Peihaps they did not always feel for him, or even see what room
there was for feeling, fiut this they could do— and in it they
never failed.

" Does not he look comfortables" Miss Jane said with
triumph. ** You would think to see him he had never budged
from his chair. And he got through his journey very weU. If
you but knew how frightened I was when we set out 1"

Stephen looked at Mrs. Drummond with a smile. There were
some lines about his month and a quiver in his upper lip which
spoke to her more clearly than to his sister. Helen had not been
in the way of goine out of herself to sympathise with others ;
and it seemed to ner as if she had suddenly ^ot a new pair of
eyeS) an additional sense. While they were all talking she saw
what the journey had really cost him in his smile.

" It is strange to see the world again after so long," he i^aid,
to realize that once one walked about it quite carelessly like
other people, without thinking what a thing it was."

*'But, Stephen, I am sure you don't repine," said his mother •

you know whose will it is, and you would not have it differ-
ent 9 That is such a comfort whatever we may have to suffer."

** You would not have it different !"

Helen looked at him almost with tears in her eyes.

" That is a great deal to say, mother," he answered with a
suppressed sigh ; while she stiU went on asking herself passion-
ately what had he done ) what had he done T

" I think the charwoman will suit very well," said Miss Jane.
She seems very clean, and that is the great thing, I am very
well satisfied with everything I have seen as yet. The kitchen
garden is beautiful. I suppose as there is no division, we are
to have it between us — ^that and the fruit 1 I have been think-
ing a few fowls would be very nice if you have no- objection.
They cost little to keep, and to have your own eggs is a great
luxury. And meat seems reasonable. I am very well satisfied
with all I have f<een."

'* If we only knew about the chapel," said Mrs. Haldane.
** So much of your comfort depends on your minister. If he is
a nice man he will be company for Stephen. That is what I am
most afraid of— that he will be dull in the country. There was
iJways some one coming in about the magazine or some society

At HtS OA'f BS.

I9d

i, we are

or other when we were in town. I am afraid, Stephen, yon will
feel quite lost here."

" Not for want of the visitors, mother/' he said ; ** especially
if Mrs. Drummond will spare me Norah. She is better than any
minister — not meaning any slight to my brethren," he added,
in a half apologetic, half-laughing tone. He could laugh still,
which was a thing Helen found it very diificult to understand.

" Norah is very nice, and I like dearly to see her," said hii
mother ; " bi)t, Stephen, I don't like to hear you talk like that.
Mrs. Drummend is not to know that it is all your nonsense.
You were always such a one for a joke."

" My jokes have not been very brilliant lately," he said, with
a smile. Mrs. Haldane rose at that moment to help her daugh-
ter with something she was moving to the other end of the
room, and Stephen, seizing the opportunity, turned quickly
round upon Helen, who was sitting by him. ** You are very
sorry for me," he said, with a mixture of gratitude and impa-
tience. Don't ! it is better not V*

" How can I help it," cried Helen. ** And why is it better
notl"

" Because I cannot bear it," he said, almost sternly.

This passed in a moment, while the unconscious women at
the other end had altered the position of a table. Never man
had more tender nurses than these two ; but they had ceased
to be sorry for him in look or vford. They had accepted their
own fate and his ; his helplessness was to them like the day-
light or the dark, a thing inevitable, the course of nature ; and
the matter-of fact way in which they had learned to treat it
made his life supportable. But it was difficult for a stranger to
realize such a fact. '

" I never told you that we were disappointed about letting
the house," said Miss Jane. " A great many people came, but
no one who was satisfactory. It is a great loss. I have left a
person in to try for a few months longer. People are very un-
principled, coming out of mere curosity, and turning over your
blankets and counterpanes without a thought."

Here the conversation came to a pause, and Helen rose. She
was standing saying her farawelis and making such offi^rs of as-
sistance as she could, when the daily event with which she had
grown familiar took place.

194

AT HIS OATia

! f , « There ig some one ooming," said Stephen, irom the wincloir.
It ought to be the queen by the commotion it makes : but it
is only Burton."

And Mrs. Haldane and Miss Jane both rushed forward to
see. Helen nvithdrew out of sight with a secret bitterness
which she oould not have put into words. Mr. Burton was
driving home from the station in all his usual importance.
His horses were groomed to perfection, the mounting of his
luumess sparhled in the sun. He half drew up as he passed,
making his bays prance and express their disapprolbation, while
he took off his hat to the new arrivals. It was such a saluta-
tion as k jocund monarch might have tossed at a humble wor-
shipper, mock ceremony and conscious oocdtscension. The
women looking out never thought of that They ran from one
window to another to watoh him entering the avenue, they
talked ^ eaoh other of his fine horses, the neat groom beside
1^4 and how polite he was. Stephen had been lookine ^n,
too, with keen mterest. A smile was on his face, but the lines
above his eyes were contracted, and the eyes themselves
gleamed with a sudden fire which startled Helen.

" I wonder what he thinks of it all," he said to her under
his breath, ** if he thinks at all. I wonder if he is comfortable
when he reflects who are living at his gates V

The WQtds were said so low that she had to stoop to hear ;
and with a wondering thrill of half*comprehension she looked
at him. What did he mean? From whence came that tone
which was almost fierce in its self-restraint 9 It seemed to
kindle a smouldering fire in her, of the nature of which she was
not quite aware. *' Burton and Golden" suddenly flashed
across her thoughts again. Where was it she had seen the
names linked together 1 What did it meani and what did
Stephen mean ) She felt as if ^e had almost found out some-
thii^, whieh quickened her pulse and made her heairt beat —
almost. But the last point of enlightenment was yet to

come. 'iJiVu X(^Hi;','i(.t [. ii.i; ,VJi<i(.:'llJ'i ■ _ii;ii.i:--> .!i.'.'i<r-

"Now he had turned in at 'the gate," said Miss iXane.
*< Well, for my piart, I am glad to have seen him; and to think
that a man could do all that by his own exertions l\ If he had
been a nobleman I should not have thought half so much of it.
1 suppose^ now, that could not be seen anywhere but in

i^ m^ pffn^

E^igl^df Ycmiiiay am^» Q^phw^jH^d thipjc i^p very yulgw^
mi944d ; b\ifc I 4o w«>k it U a veiry wqad^rful s^ht ^

And tiiu.s the aecopd. household settled dpiv;n and ,becitpiie »
p»^ of the l^dsc^pe which the family 9>t Bm^ surveyed yri^^
con]|p)aisADt propnetorship, ^nd through whieh Mr. burton
drove every afternoQD, calUng admiriug 8pectat<«8 to jiU th^
windows. The rich mi^n hflid never enjoyed the commotion he
n^e so much as he did now when he could see at the Gate-
house those faces looking out There was scarcely an evening
but Miss Jane or her mother would stand up to see him, gasifig
with unoonscioufii worship j^t this representative of wealw and
strength, and that practical power which sways the world ;
while Nprah would clamber i^p on a chair behind the blinds ai
the Qther epdf and look oi^t with her big brown eyes full of
S^riou^ obsoryatipn. I^e thougl^t j^prah wpndered and worr
shipped too, not h^i^ able to understf^nd the language of her
eyes,, A^d spn^etimes he would see, or think he sayr> her
mother behind her. When he did, so he went home in good-
humour, and WS^ more jpcu^r than usual; for nothing save
him such a sense of his own greatness, his prosperity, and si^;
peripi^ity to, Cjommon ^e^h and bipod, as the homage, or suppos-
ed hom<lg^ paid to hii^ l^y those looJEers-pn at the wihdjows of
the j^^te^QUse.

Mr. Burfipn's eiatisfaction came tp la climax when bis fi^tfier-
in-law came to pay his next visit, whiph h^pnened not very
loiig after the arrival of the Haldanes. Mr. Bfildwin,^ as wp
have s^d, was a Disseuter, a^d something like a lay bishop in
his denomination. He was very rich, a^n|d lived very plainly
at Clapham with his twosis^rs, Mrs. Everett and ^iss Louisa.
They ijirerp all veiy, good people in their way. There was not a
man in England who, subscribed to more societies or presided
at a greater number of meeting. I^e spent half his income in
this way ; he " prompted " charities as his sopiiin-law prompted
joint sto(^ cpmp^nies ; and prided himself on the simplicity pf
his living and his tastes, notwithstanding his wealth. Whe^
he and his sisters eame to pay a visit lat Dura they walked froin
the station, leaving their servants ancl then: boxes to fpllpw i)^
a fly. " "VVe have the^ use of our limbs, I am thankful to Prp-
videujcp," one, of .the siste?^ would, say. ; " wby shou^ we have^
parri^e fp^ ft^itllp b^ 0)(,W»d M^M^} " TJ^eJr/^Falkj^, in *

AT m^ OATSS.

little {irocessiofi, thi gentleman in advance, like a trinmpiiant
cock in his harem, the two ladies a little behind. Mr. Baldwin
wore his hat on the, back of his head, and a wllte tie, like one
6t his favourite ministers ; h^ hftd a round, chubby face, withoat
any whiskers, and a c6mpldxion almost as clear as little Clara's.
ThiB two ladies were like him, except that Mrs. Everett, who
was a widow, was large and stout, and Miss Louisa pale and
thin. They walked along with a natural feelins of benevotent
supremacy, making their remarks on everybody and every-
tuing with distinct voices. When they got to the Gatehouse
fhey paused and inspected it, though ulq windqws were all
open.' ■"■;'"

.'*f £ think Reginald was wrong to five such a bouse as this
totbose poor p9«}ple," said the married sister in front of the
dbor, "It is a handsome house. He might have found some
little cobta^e for them> and let this to a family."

'* Biit, Martha, he gave what he had. and ijt i6 that thajb\is
always accepted," said MUs Louisa. m uri^^.m.. .-^irn..

The brother, drowned her pliintive little voice with a more
decided reply —

"I am very glad Haldane has such good quatters. As for
the lady, I buppose she was not to blame; but wLena man
flies in the face of Providence I would not reward him by
providing for his wife and family. I agree with Martha. It
is.a waste of the gifts of God to jnve this house to poor people
who cannot enjoy it ; but stilL Burton is right on the whole.
If you cannot do better with your property, why should not
you use it to make friends of the mammon of unrighteousness?
I approve of his charity on the whole."

Inside the recipients of the charity sat and heard All through
the open windows. But what then? Mr Baldwin and his
sisters were not responsible for that. They went on to the
avenue making the same candid and audible remarks all along
^he road. It was not necessary that they should exercise self-
testra^nt. They were in the dominions of their relation. They
were absolute over all foolish sentiment and false pride. They
said it loud out, frankly, whatever they might haye to say.
The arrival of thes^ visitors always made a certain commotion
at Dura. It moved Mr. BurtoQ a great deal morti th^n it did
ids wife. Indeed, if there wfiJil anything Which vexed him in

f?riW m^

her exemplary behaviour, it was that she would not make tem-
porarily tne changes which he thought were ** only respectful"
to suit the tastes of her father and aunts. " You know your
father likes only plain roast and boiled," he would say to her,
half-indignantly, adding, with a laugh, *' and minister sauce."
This last was one of his favourite jokes, though it 4id not
strike his wife as particularly brilliant. But the minister
sauce was the only thing which Mrs. Burton provided for her
father. She held fast by her menu, though he disapproved of
it. She dressed herself tranquilly for dinner, though her aunts
held up their hands, and asked her solemnly if she knew what idl
this extravagance must come to 9 In these matters Clara would
not give way ; but she asked the minister of the chapel in the
village to dinner, and it was in presence of this functionary that
Mr. Baldwin filled up the measure of his son-in-law's content.

"I see you have been very generous to poor Haldane," he
said. " I am very much obliged to you. Burton. He is my own
man ; I should have been compelled to do something for him
if you had not taken him up; and my hands are always so full!
Yuu will find I do not forget it. But it was a great waste to
put him into such a handsome house."

" I a,m delighted to have pleased you," said Mr. Burton.
<< It was an empty house ; and I have put my cou^n, Mrs^
Drummond, in the other end, whom I was obliged to take care
of. It was the cheapest way of doing it. J am most happy
to think I have relieved you, even of so little as that."

" Oh yes, you have relieved me," said Mr. Baldwin. " I shan't
forget it. it will be an encouragement to^r. Truston and to
many of the brethren to see that a sick friend is never abandoned.
I don't mean to say that you want any inducement— but, still,
when vou can see that even in the case of failing strength "

** Oh yes. I am sure it |s most encouraging," the poor min-
ister faltered. ^ ^^^,[; .;^ .^^k

Encouraging to think of Stephen Haldane, who was thus
provided fori The two rich men went on with their talk over
their wine, while some confused speculation as to the ways of
Providence went through tne head of theircompanion. He wiub
young, and he felt ill-at-ease, and he (^id not like to interfere
much. Had it been Mr. Dalton he would have been less easily
silenced. Thus Mr. Burton found his benevolence in one par-
ticular at least attended with the most perfect success.

iff ^ CfAW^.

...;i.wi .,.

CHlArtfilt XM

•utdfM/:

ND everything settled db^^m, and' Natifire restltned lueir
common rbund. This is what lifature does in all cir-
cumstances. There never Was so bad a storm but next
tuoming the thrifty mother took heart and set to work again
as best sEe could to make amends for it. It is only when the
storm affects human hearts and lives that this cheerral^ pathetic
effort to get the better of it becomes terrible ; for the menditig
in toch cases is so ofteli superficial, the cure impossible: Other
tr^es grow Up to fin the gap made by the one blown dbwit;
but riot othetr loves or otheir nopes. Yet gradually the teiDtpe^t
cdihib, the -\^eck is swept away, aUd sotUe things that are new
are always better than some thihgs that weirei old, ciVen though
the old can never be replaced whfle life g06S Ott.

6f all the dwellers in the OatehoUse, it Wdb poor Haldto
who felt this the most. The r^ali^ of this lif6 & the cfOUntfy
#iid Vfcry differfeflt froiii the antidipatibh. The frfesh air ^hich
hid motheir^had hoped to hkv6 for ^phcfri — ^tlie cottage garden
#hich they had m dreamt of (even He hiintelf by momfetitsl
•^here he could be wheeled in his chair to sit under the apple-
tree and smdl the floWers — had vahished froiii their 116t of
pbssibilities. All the fresh air he coUld hav6 Was frotn the
open window by which his chair Was placedl But Hot eHrieti
ffh^ garden and the apple-tre^ would havo done so much for
him as the varieties of the country rbadl Instead of thegm:-
den walls sit Yictoria Villas, the strip df dUsty grass, the chaticie
sight Of a neighbour's child at play, or (more likely) of a
neighbour's clothes hung out to dry, he had a gettuine rural
high-road, With all iti^ sights. He saw the darts passing with
rural ptodilce, fall of big baskets of vegetables for the Londdh
tharket ; he saw the great waggOUs of odbrous hay, With a man
asleep on the top, half buried iu the wanu aud fragknt mass,
bir crackitig his Whip On the path, and shbUting di'bwsy, iu-

itrticulate calls to the hbta^s, Who tbok iihteir 6#ii w&y, and dH
iiot n^hd hith : he s^w the carrjutges gleiAm past "idth the great

AT HIS OATESw

199

pdopto, irhotk hr degrees he got to know ; and then the Eector^
ohildi«n were always about, and Mrs. Daltonin her ponj-ohaise,
and the people coming and going from the village. There
were two of the village folk in particular who brought a posi-
tive pleasure into his life — not a pair of lovers, or any pretty
group, but only Olippings, the tailor, and Brown, the shoemaker,
who strolled down tne road in the evening to smoke their pipes
and talk politics as far as the Rectory gate. Clippings, who
lived " up town," was always decorous in his shabby coat ; but
Brown, whose shop was at ** the corner," came in his shirt-
sleeves, with his apron turned up obliquely to one side. They
would stop just opposite his window when they got hot in
their discussion. Sometimes it was the parish they talked of,
sometimes the affairs of the state, and it was in Stephen's mind
sometimes to invite them to cross the road, and to have his say
in the matter- They were hot men of education or intelligence
perhaps ; but they were men, living the natural human life
from which he had been torn, and it did him good to watch
them. After a while they began to look over at him and take
off their hats, half with village obsequiousness to a possible
customer, half with natural feeling for a soul in prison ; and
he gave them a nod in return.

But this vulgar fancy of his was not quite approved of within.
" If you are so friendly with these men, Stephen, you will
have them coming over, and poisoning the whole hou3e with
tobacco," Mrs. Haldane said, with an expressive sniff. ^'I
think I smell it even now." But his mother was not aware
that the scent of the tobacco was like an air of paradise to poor
Stephen, who had loved it well enough when he was his own
master, though it had become impossible now

Mrs. Haldane, however, did not say a word against Mr.
Dalton's cigar, which he very often smoked under Stephen's
window in those summer mornings, lounging across in his
study coat. It must be remembered that Stephen was not a
Dissenting minister pw et simpky but a man whose name had
been heard in that literary world which Mr. Dalton, as a
"thoughtful" and " liberal" clergyman, chiefly affected. The
rector felt that it was kind to go and talk to poor Haldane,
but he was not so overwhelmingly superior as he might have
been under other circumstances. He did not set him down at

200

▲T HIS GATES.

onoe ftt a distanoe of a hundred miles, as he did Mr. Trnston,
the minister of the chapel at Dura, by the mere suavity of his
*' good morning." On the contrary, they had a great deal of
talk. Mr. Dalton was a man who piqued himself on his Radi-
calism, except when he happened to come in contact with
JCadicals, and he was very great in education, though he left
the parish schools chiefly to his wife. When anything had
happened which was more than ordinarily interesting in public
affairs, he would stride across with gaiety to the encounter :
** I told you your friend Bright was not liberal-minded enough
to see that distinction," he would say ; or, " Gladstone has
gone off on another search after truth ; " and then the battle
would go on, while Stephen sat inside and his interlocutor
paced the white flags in front of the Gatehouse up and down
under the windows with that fragrant cigar. Sometimes Mary
would come flying over from the Rectory : " Papa, papa, you
are wanted. There are some papers to sign, and mamma can't
doit, she says." ** PazUnzal" the rector would answer, for
he had travelled too.

And then on the Saturday there were other diversions for
Stephen. Old Ann from the farm of Dura Den would whip
up her old white pony and stop her cart under his window.
She had hef grandson with her, a chubby lad of twelve, in a
smock-frock, beautifully worked about the shoulders, with
cheeks as red as the big poppies in the nosegay which his
grandmother made a point of bringing' every Saturday to the
poor sick gentlemen.

"And how do you do, sir, this fine fresh morning 1" she
would shout to him. " I hope as I sees you better. Sammy,
give me those flowers. It's old-fashioned, master, but it's sweet
and I just wish I see you able to come and fetch 'em for your-
self."

"Thank you, Ann ; but I fear that's past hoping for," Ste-
phen would say with a smile.

The, same colloquy passed between them every week, but
they did not tire of it, and the little cart with its mixture of
colours, the red carrots, and white cauliflowers, and many-tinted
greens, was a pleasant sight to him. He did not object even
to the pungent odour of the celery, which often communicated
itself to hu bouquet The white pony, and the red and white

AT HIS 0AT9&

201

and green of the vegetables, and old Ann with, a small face,
like a russet winter apple, under her deep bonpet, and l^er
little red shawl, trimly tied in round her waist by the greajt,
many pocketed apron ; and Sammy trudging behind, with boots
like buckets, with a basket of crimson cabbage for pickles on
his arm, and his puffy, peony cheeks, made up a homely picture
which delighted the recluse. It was an event for him when
the Saturday came round, and he began (he said) to be very
fond of the smell of celery, and to think double poppies very
hanisume, showy flowers to put into a nosegay. Miss Jane
took an interest in Ann too, but it was of a different kind.
She would go to the door, and have long discussions with her
on various subjects, quite as interesting as the rector's battles
with Stephen — whether the butter was rising, and what was
the cheapest for her poultry ; for Ann's butter and her poultry
were the best in Dura, and when she knew you, and felt that
you were to be depended upon, she was not dear, Miss Jane
always said.

There was also another visitor, who came once a week, not
to Stephen's window, but to make a call in all proper state.
This was Mr. Truston, the minister of the chapel, who was
like Stephen, b, protege of Mr. Baldwin, but had not either done
so much credit or given so much trouble to the denomination
as Haldane had. Mr. Truston was aware how his new acquain-
tance was spoken of by the community, and his mind was
much divided between veneration for Step! en's powers and a
desire to be faithful with his brother. If he could be the
humble instrument of setting him quite right with the denomi-
nation and preserving the efficiency of the magazine, he felt
that he would not have lived in vain. But it was a dreadful
trial to his modesty to assume an admonitory position to onei
whom he respected so much. He confided his difficulties to
Mrs. Wigginton, the wife of the draper at Dura, who was a
leading member of the congregation, and a very thoughtful
woman ; and she had given him a greM deal of eneouragment,
and put his duty before him in the clearest light. ,,^

" The thing is to keep him to fundamental principles," Mrs.
Wigginton said. '' I would excuse a great deal if he preserved
these. We may be superior to distinction, and know that there
is good both in church and chapel. But that wiU not do for

tot

£t Hi^ MrM

the comttion mass. And we xmist support the detidlninatioii,
Mr. TVuston^ It has its faults — ^but, whatever its faults may
be, We must staud by our flag.

'* Ah, I' wish you would take him iu hand," said the minis-
ter "tdth a sigh ; but, all the same, such inspiration as this did
not go for nothing. He began to call on the Haldanes every
week; and when ne screwed up his courage he jtneant to be
very Mthful with Stephen ; but a man cannot begin that pro-
cess all at once.

-; Thus the Haldanes settled down iu the Gatehouse; and
their settling down a£flected Helen with that unintentional ex-
ample and encouragement, which people convey to each other
without meaning it. They wei*e wl very poor, but Miss Jane,
who had never beeit very rich, and who had been trained to
liv6 6il th^ smallest sum imaginable, made no hardship of her
poterty, and communicated a certaiu cheerfiilliess about it e-Ven
to her neighbour, whose mind and training were so very differ-
ent. Miss Jane took it as she had learned to take (though
itdt tih after many struggles) her brother's illness, as a matter of
cbiirse. She was aware that there were rich people in the world
i%e sai;^ thetn even, the Burtons, fbr instance, who passed her
Sve^ day, and whose Kfe was full of luxury ; but this did not
mow her, anymore than the sight of a great beauty would
hkve moved her to impatience of her own plain and homely
ttce. The we&lih like the beauty was exceptional. Thehome-
finess and the poverty were the natural rule. And Helen saw
that the Hues of pain were softened in Stephen's face, and that
he had begun to feel something like pleasure in those allevia-
tions of his loneliness which have been described. All this
prodticed a soothing, quieting influence upon her.' She was
flushed, as a child is who is not satisfied, whose cry is ready to
burst fbrth at any moment, but upon whom the very atmos-
phere, the stOlUess of the air has produced a certain calm. The
wrong which had burnt her heart like a fire was not extinguish-
ed ; it burned low, not for want of fuel, but because the air was
soft and humid, and kept down the flame. And she herself
was subdued. She was weary of sufifbring, and the routine
of the new life acted upon her like an opiate, and the sense
tSiat all thils was a,eeepted as ordinary and natural by others,
kc^t het dowa And then Norah had cast away those bonds

l^'in^MTiBl.

208

#hiohMdpt^ress a e1i9d— the Bdnda of cbnventidiud qttitBt, itvKiblit
remain when iiatiiral grief has passed away in the order of
things. Nora,h had begun to sing i^boat the house, to danoo
when she should have walkisd, to wake up*l^e the flowers, to
Hve like the birds, spending her days in a chatter and flutter
of lifb and gladness. All this ckhned down and suppressed the
Mings which had swayed Helen after her husband's dtoth.
Though her old sense of suspicion in resj^ect t6 her cousin had
succeeded the momentary relenting which his kindness had
produced in her, even that was suppressed in the artificial calm.
She bli&med herself for shrinking from his presence, for cUslik-
ing his friendliness ; she evenjbiade an effort to go to his house^
to overcome what she said to herself wac her mean envy of his
prosperity. She made friends with his wifb, as fito as two wo-
men so different could make friends, and tried to believe thiiCt
Rednald Burton himself had never meant but well. It was in
October; when she had first begun fully to realize the stntid^^
qtiietness that had come tipon her, that it was suddenly brokdi
up, never in that same fashion to return again.

There were visitors at the time at Dura Hbuse, vidtoM of
importJeUice, great county people, potentates whom it was said
Mrs. Btirton ifAB specialt^^ bent on conciliating in order to Open
the way into Parliament — a glory upon which she was set —
to he^ nusband. Mr. Burton had himself taken a holiday ftotb,
basinesd, and, on this particular day had gone up, after a long
intiBrV^l, " to see," he said, with that cheerfiil, important laugh
of his, "how things were going on." That evening, however,
Dura tillage was disappointed of its usual amusement. The
phaetoii with the bays went slowly past, driven by the groom;
with a certain consternation in every line of the horses, and iti
every splendid tail and high-stepping hoof.

"Has Hot your master comel" JiSib. Burton asked, wheii
she met this forlorn equipage in the avenue. Such a thing
had been known ; sometimes business was so urgent that Mr.
Burtoii had lost his train, or waited for one that went lat^r.
But that tirhich had happened this evening had never happened
before.

"He is ivalking, ma'am," said the groom, with gloom;$r sig-
nification- It gave even Mrs. Burton a start, though tAA wa^
ttsuaily so ci^-possessed ; a^d a$ fbr the groom, he «ptM it

J^,^^J^ATEa.

^lK>iit throneh the house that there had been " a smash " in
the City. Nothing else could account for so extraordinary a

Mr. Burton walkedi and his countenance was clouded. There
was a shade on it, which the people about Dura, stupefied in
the first instance, by seeing him afoot at that hour, interpreted
as the groom did. They thought ** something must have hap<
pened4' The Bank of England must have faltered on its
throne ; half the merchants, at home and abroad, must have
fallen to the dust, like Oagon. Some one of weak mind, who
suggested that the ministry might be out, was snubbed by
everybody with a contempt proportioned to his foolishness.
Would Mr. Burton look like that for any merely political mis-
fortune 1 But no one ventured even to suggest that Burton
4? Co. themselves might have sustain(^ some blow. Such
treason might be in men's thoughts, but no one dared to hint
at an event which more than a revolution or a lost empire would
have convulsed Dura. There are spf^e^hingfi which it is impi-
ous even to speculate about. ' I '

Mr. Burton, went rlirect to the Gatehouse. He had no.t his
usual condescending word to Susan, nor did he remember to
wave his hand to Stephen as he passed the window. He went
straight into the drawing-room where Helen and Norah were
sitting. They had just coI^e in from their walk, and were go-
ing to have tea ; and such a visit at this hour startled them.
There was something more. than gloom on his face ; there was
suppressed an^er, and he had the look of a map who had come
t9 speak hi^ miq4. He shook hands in the slightest, most hasty
way, not evidently caring to waste time in salutations, and he did
uot take the cMair that was offered to him. He ke^t standing,
looking first at Helen and then at Norah, with glances which
he seemed to e2;pect would be understood ; but as Norah had
b^en present at every discussion in the he use all her life, it did
not occur to her to go awaiv, nor to her mother to send her. At
last he was obliged to speiak plainly.

" I am anxious to taljc to you by yourself,** he said. "I
have something very important to say. Norah, perhaps, would
run out to the garden, or, spmewhere-^for half an hour. I
shouldnot askfor morp.' ,;,j,,,,.cf , .|/^,,^,^,, .

*^ I^orah ! " said Helen, V^w surprise. ** But she ^las heard

At fits OAttS.

205

everything that any one can have to say to me. She knows as
much as I do. You may say anything before Norah."

•« By ! " said Mr. Burton. He did not put any word

in the vacant place. He swore by BUhlc* as we do in books,

contenting himself with the "By r!" "/don't mean to

speak of my affairs before Korah," he saici, walking to the win-
dovTt and looking out. " Send her away.*'

He waited there with his back turned to the two, who gazed
at each other amazed.

" Go up stairs till I send for you, Norah," said Helen, with
a trembling voice. It must be some new pain, some new ter-
ror, something about Norah's father. She put her hand on her
heart to keep it still. This was how her calm was broken all
in a moment. She put her child away with the other hand.
And Norah, astonished, indignant, choking with sudden rage
and mortification, flew out of the room aiid rushed up-stairs.
The sound of her hurried, angry retreat seemed to ring through
all the house. It was not till her foot was heard overhead that
her mother found breath to speak. " What is it 1 — tcdl me I
There can be nothing now so very hard to bear."

"I don't know what you mean about hard to bear," said
Mr. Burton, turning pettishly round and seating himself on a
chair in front of hor. " Helen I have done all T could to be
kind to you. You will say it has not cost me very much, but
it has cost me more than you think. I have put myself to a
great deal of trouble, and »-■>•'■

" Is this all you have to tell'm'^ V'bH^ asked faintly, still
holding her hand upon her heart.

" All ! " he repeated ; and then changing his tone suddenly,
" do you know anything of this new folly Maurice has taken
in hand 1 Don't prevaricate, Helen ; answer me yes or no."

" I do not know what you mean," she said, and paused for
breath. Her fright, and the strange assaolt that had been
made upon her, confused her mind. Theii gradually with
Maurice's name came a sudden gleam of light.

" That is a pretence," he Said. " I can s(^e in your facia that
you understand. You that 1 have been, so to speak, ndUrisH-^
ing in my bosom— you —Helen ! There is still time to think'
better of it. Have you given yoiir consent to it ? Has he got
yournamel" ^

AT,5I8 (ifAWW.

''If it is anything Dr. Maurice is doing/' she sai4» "yes, he
has got my consent, and more than my consent"

"Good heaveqsy why f Are ^ou in your senses ? I thought
it was some idiotic woman's notion., What good can it possi-
bly do to rake up that business all over again ? What ihe
deuce do you mean by it ? What can it ever be to you, ) "

''What is it to you 1 " she said.

" To 1^9 r" She was looking at him, and his voice f^ll. He
had begun loudly, as if with the intention of declaring that to
hka it was less than nothing ; but he was caught by her look,
and only grew confused, and stammered out again, " To me ! "

" Yes," said Helen. " You are not a Director. You have
said you were a loser only, you ^4 n9 req^wnsjbjl^tjf. Tj^en
what does it matterto you r , . ,

Mr. Burton turned away his head; he stamped his foot
slightly on the floor in impatience. "What is the use f'jhe
wd, as if to himself, "you might teach an elephant to i fly
sooner than make a woman understand about business. With-
out being anything to me, it loight be something, tp my
friends."

" Is th^t man — ^that— golden— is he your friend T

" Of course he is," said Mr. Burton roughly, with a certain
defiance* *^ You a^e prejudiced against him unjustly. But he
is niyiri^d, and a very good fellow too."

" Then it is better not to say any more," said Helen rising,
trembling in every limb. "It is best not to say any more. Oh,
4on't venture to name his name to me 1 If I had not been a
woman, I should have — not killed him. — That would have
been too good. Innocent men are killed, and you others look
on, and never lift a finger. I would have pursued him till his
last breath — crushed nun— ma^e Him feel what he ha^ done,
^d I will— if t have the power r

$he stood up confronting her cousin, trembling, yet glowing
i^h that passion which me name of her husband's slanderer
always roused within her. She was almost as tall as Burton
w{^ an^d he felt as if she towered over him^ and was cowed by
the strength of her emotion. He rose too, but he shrank back
a stet^ not knowing how to meet the spirit he had r<)used.

" These are nice Christian sentiments," he said^ ^t^ an
attempt at a sneer ; but in his heart he was afraid*

■vrt;r.n 'it!'

At Bts «A¥.U.

i07

'^task nobody what kind of sentiments they fuw/' sb« oned.
" If he had wronged me only, I would have forgiven him. Bi|t
no man shall say his name before me — no man 1 I may not
have the power ; my friends may not have the power ; bat it is
that and not the will, which will fail if we fail I will n^ver
give up trying to punish him, never in mv life 1"

" Then you will be acting like a fool," Mr. Burton said ; but
he changed his tone, and took a great deal of trouble to persuade
her to take her seat again, and discuss the inatt^ caWly
with him.

Norah stood up-stairs by the window, watching till he should
0. The child's heart was bursting with rage and pain. She
ad never been sent away before ; she had heard everythjlog,
had been al^rays present whatever was going on. Her father^
Dr. Maurice, Mr. Haldane, every one of them had spoken ii^h«r
presence all that they had to say. And she remepibered woirda
that no one else remembered, scraps of talk which she could put
together. She did so with a violent exercise of her memory
as she stood there drumming on the window, and wondering
when he would go. ** He thinks I am only a child," she said to
herself, in the fiery commotion of her spirits, and thought of a
hundred things she could do to prove the contrary. She would
go to Dr. Maurice ; she would let " everybody" know. He was
no friend ; he was a conspirator against them — one of those who
killed her father. Every moment that passed inflamed Norah
more. She stood at the window and watched, thinking would
he never be gone, thinking, oh why could she not make
herself a woman ! What.her mother had done was nothine to
what Norah felt herself capable of doing. Every vein in her
body, and every nerve had begun to thrill and tremble before
she heard the sound down-stairs of the door opening, and saw
him go hastily away.

This was what he said when he opened the door of the sit-
ting-room down-stairs —

" You will do what you please, of course. I have found out
before now what it is to struggle with an unreasonable woman.
Do what you like. Drag your husband's name through the
diit again. Throw all sorts of new light on his motives. That
is what you will do. People might have forgotten it; but after
what you are going to do, they will never forget. And that is

AT tan 0AT1B8.

all you will have for yonr pains — ^you may be inre yon caa ^o
nothing to us.*'

" Us 1" said Helen. '* You told me you were not con-
cerned."

And then Mr. Burton changed colour and lost his temper.

" You drive a man wild," he cried. " You make me that I
don't know what £ am saying. Of course you know what I mean
though you pretend you don't. I mean my friends. And you
know that, and you know how much you owe to me, and yet
the answer I get is — this 1"

He slammed the door after him like ?n angry maid-servant ;
he strode hastily away to his own house, with a face which of
itself gave a new paralytic seizure to old John at the lodge. He
filled everybody with consternation in his own house. And
Helen stood still after he had left her, half exultant, half stupe-
fied. Us/ Had she found his cunning manoeuvres out f

P,rf.

▲T HIS GATES.

209

CHAPTER XXII.

jR. MAURICE came down next day. He was a man
of very quiet manners, and vet he was unable to con-
ceal a certain excitement. He walked into the Qate-
house with an air of abstraction, as if he did not quite know
what he was about.

** I have come to talk about business/' he said, but he did
not send Norah away. Probably had he not been so glad to see
her once more, it would have surprised him to see the child
whom he had never beheld apart from a book, standing up by
her mother's chair, watching his face, taking in every word.
Norah's role had changed since those old days. She had no
independent standing then ; now she was her mother's
companion, champion, supporter. This changes as nothing
else can do a child's life.

" Our case is to be heard for the first time to-morrow," he
said. " I believe they are all very much startled. Golden was
brought before the magistrate yesterday ; he has been admitted
tobul, of course. If I could have had the satisfaction of
thinking that rascal was even one night in prison ! But that
was too much to hope for. Mrs. Drummond, can you guess
who was his bail 1 "

Helen shook her head, not understanding quite what he
meant ; but all the same she knew what his answer would be.
He brought it out with a certain triumph —

"Why, Burton — ^your precious cousin ! I knew it would be
so. As sure as that sun is shining. Burton is at the bottom of
it all I have seen it from the first."

"Dr. Maurice," said Helen, " where have I seen, where have
I read. * Burton and Golden have done it 1' The words seem
to haunt me. I cannot be fancy."

Dr. MauriceHpok out his pocket-book. He too> a folded
paper from an inner pocket, and held it to her without a word.
Poor Helen, in the composure which she had attained so pain-
fully, began to shake and tremble ; the sight of it moved her
N

210

AT HIS GATES.

beyond her self-control. She could not weep, but her strained
nerves quivered, her teeth chattered, her frame was convulsed
by the shock. " Ah !" she cried, as people do when they re-
ceive a blow; and yet now she remembered it all— every word;
it seemed to be written on her heart.

The physician was alarmed. Human emotion has many
ways of showing itself, but none more alarming than this. He
put the letter hastily away again, and plunged into wild talk
about the way she was living , the house, and the neighbour-
hood.

" You are taking too little exercise. You are shutting your-
self up too much," he said, with something of that petulance
which so often veils pity. He was not going to encourage her
to break down by being sorry for her : the other way, he thought,
was the best And then he himself was on the very borders of
emotion too, the sight of these words had brought poor R* bert
so keenly to his mind. And they had brought to his mind also
his own hardships. Norah in her new place was very bewilder-
ing to him. He had noted her closely while her mother was
speaking, and with wonder and trouble had seen a woman look
at him through the girl's brown eyes — a woman, a new
creature, an independent being, whom he did not know, whom
he would have to treat upon a different footing. This discovery,
which he had not made at the first glance, filled him with dis-
may and trouble. He had lost the child whom he loved.

" Norah, come and show me the house," he said, with a
certain despair ; and he went away, leavmg H<-len to recover
herself. That was better than going back upon the past, recall
ing to both the most painful moments of their life.

He took Norah's hand, and walked through the open door
into the garden, which was the first outlet he saw.

"Come and tell me all about it," he said. "Norah, what
have you been doing to yourself 1 Have you grown up in these
three mouths ? You are not the little girl I used to know."

" Oh, Dr. Maurice, do you think 1 have grown? " cried Norah,
with her whole heart in the demand.

And it would be impossible to deticribe what a comfort this
eager question was to him. He laughed, and looked down up-
on her, and began to feel comfortable again.

" Do you know, I am afraid you have not grown/' he said,

▲T HIS GATES.

211

patting his other hand fondly on her hrown hair. "Are you
vexed, Norahl For my part, I like yon best as you ara"

" Well, it cannot be helped," said Norah, with resignation.

" I did not think I had ; but for a moment I had just a little
hope, you looked so funny at me. Oh, Dr. Maurice, I do so
wish I was grown up !— for many things. First there is, Mr.
Burton, who comes and bullies mamma. I hate that man. I re-
member at home, in the old days, when you used to be talk-
ing, and nobody thought I paid any attention^ "

"What do you remember, Norah?"

" Oh heaps of things. I can s<?arcely tell you. They would
look at each other — I mean Mr. Golden and he. They would
say things to each other. Oh, I don't remember what the words
were ; how should I remember the words? but things — just as
you might look at me, and give a little nod, as if we had some-
thing secret from mamma, I know they had secrets, those
twOg If I were grown up and could speak, I would tell him so.
Dr. Maurice, can't we punish them 1 I cannot imagine " cried
Norah passionately, " what God can be thinking of to let them
alone and let them be happy, after all they have done to — ^poor
papa!" ;,y^^ Ob ;,t/.'i

" Norah these are strange things for you to be thinking of,"
said Dr. Maurice, once more disturbed by a development which
he was not acquainted with.

" Oh, no. If you knew how we live, you would not think
them strange. I am little ; but what does that matter? There
is mamma on one side, and there is Mr. Haldane. How diffe-
rent we all used to be ! Dr. Maurice, I reuiember when poor
Mr. Haldane used to take me up, and set me on his shoulder ;
and look at him now ! Oh, how can any one see him, and
bear it ? But it does no good to cry."

" But, Norah, that is not Mr. Burton's fault."

" No, not that ; but, oh, it is God's fault," said Norah, sink-
ing her voice to a whisper, and ending with a burst of passion-
ate tears.

" Hush, hush, hush ! " He took her hand into both of his,
and soothed her. Thoughts like these might float through a
man's mind involuntarily, getting no utterance ; but it horrified
him to hear them from the lips of a child. Was she a child 1
Dr. Maurice said to himself once more, with an inward groan,

AT HIS o!4TES

m
In'

ihit his little Norah, his dream-child of the f^ 'tkle«/wite
gone, and he should fihd her no mote.

"And then it vexes one rather to belittle," she said, sud-
denly dr3dng her eyes," because of Clara. Clara is not twelve
tod she is much bigger than I am. She can reach to these
roses— look — while I can't get near them ; and they are the on-
1^ roses we have now. But, after all, though it may be nice to
be tall, it doesn't matter very much, do you think, for a woman t
So mamma says ; and girls are just as often little as tall — ^in
books."

" For my part, I am'fond of little women," said Dr. Maurice,
and this time he laughed within himself. She kept him be-
tween the two, changing from childhood to womanhood with-
out knowing it. " But tell me, who is Clara 1 I want to
know about your new friends here."

"Clara is Clara Burton, and very like him," said Norah.
** I thought I should be fond of her at first, because she! is
my cousin ; but I am not fond of her. Ned is her brother. I
like hJm better. He is a horsey, doggy sort of a boy ; but
then he has always lived in the country and he knows no
jbetter. One can't blame him for that ; do you think 1"

"Oh, no," said Dr. Maurice with great seriousness; "one cau't
blame him for that." The man's heart grew glad over the
child's talk. He could have listened to her running on about
her friends for ever.

"And then there was — some one else," said Norah, instinct-
ively drawing herself up ; " not exactly a boy ; a — ^gentleman.
We saw him in, town, and then we saw him here ; first with
that horrible man, Mr. Golden, and another day with the Bur-
tons. But you are not to think badly of him for that. He was
— on our side."

" Who is this mysterious personage, I wonder 1 " said Dr.
Maurice smilingly ; but this time it was not a laugh oi* a groan,
but a little shivering sensation of pain that ran through him, he
could not tell why.

" He was more like Fortunatus than any one," said Norah.

"But he could not be like Fortunatus in everything, for he
said he was poor like us — ^though that might be only, as I say
it myself, to spite Clara. Well, he was grown up — ^taller than
7<)ti «re, Dr. 'Mmitice^iidth tdciQ caditig'sbrtt>f luUr.allmlit-

m.^^ Qim^f.

V\%

iJ[9 t^in^ iaMibiiif«, l^)4J?ea^1#ul,e]r«& Thej flaished up apt.
wjjifiT^. ;m$^mn% 8{v>>ce. Man^pia was v^ry, yery angry t^l^ing, to,
th^^jhoiT^lt^^ vfim at par o^inai very door. Fanqy, he had darea^
to go a^ call and leave his horrid card. I tore it into twenty,
pieces, and stamped upon it. It was silly, I suppose; but to
think he should dai;e to call — at our own very house "

" I am gettins dreadfully confused, Norah, between ihe
beautiful eyes and the horrible man. I don't know what I am
about. Which was which t "

" Oh, Dr. Maurice, how could you ask such a question ?;
Are there two such men in the world 1 It was that Mr. Golden
whom I hate ; and Mr. Rivers — Cyril Rivers — was with him,
not knowing — ^but he says he will never go with him again. I
saw it in his eyes in a moment ; he is on our side."

'' You are young to read eyes in this way. I do not think I
quite like it, Norah," said Dr. Maurice, in a tone which she re-
cognized at once.

" Why, you are angry. But how can I help it 1 " said Korah,
growing a woman again. " If you were like me, Dr. Maurice
—if you felt your mamma had only you — if you knew there
was nobody else to stand by her, nobody to help her, and you
so little! I am obliged to thinlc; I cannot help myself.
When I grow up. I sh^ have so much to do ; and how can I
know whether people are on our side or against us, except by
looking at their eyes 1 "

" Norah, my little Norah ! " cried the man pitifully, " don't
leave your innocence for such fancies as these. Your mother
has friends to think for her and you — many friends ; I myself,
for example. As long as I am alive, do you require to go and
look for people to be on your side ? Why, child, you forget.
me"

Norah looleO at him searchingly, penetrating, as he thought,
to the bottoui of his heart,

" I did not forget you. Dr. Maurice. You are fond of me and
of— poor papa. But I have to think of Jier. I don't think you
love her. And she has the most to bear."

Dr. Maurice did not make any reply. He did not love
Helen ; he even shrank from the idea with a certain prudish
sense of delicacy — an old bachelor's bashfulness. Love lilrs.
Drummond I Why, it was out of the question. The i^^ft dis-

214

AT HIS GATES.

concerted him. He had been quite pained and affected a mO'
ment before at the thought that his little Norah — the child
that he was so fond of — shoald want other champions. But
now he was disconcerted, and in front of the grave little face
looking; up at him, he did not even dare to smile. Norah,
however, was as ready to raise him up as she had been to cast
him down.

" Do you think Cyril is a pretty name. Dr. Maurice 1 " she
asked. " I think it sounds at first a little weak- too pretty
for a boy. So is Cecil. I like a rough, round sort of name
—Ned, for instance. You never could mistake Ned. One
changes one's mind about names, don't you think t T used to
be all for Geralds and Cyrils and pretty sounds like that ; now
I like the others best. Clara is pretty for a girl ; but every-
body thinks I must be Irish, because I'm called Norah. Why
was I called Nurah, do you know 1 Charlie Dalton calls ihe
Norah Creina."

" Here Is some one quite fresh. Who is Charlie Dalton 1 "
said Dr. Maurice, relieved.

" Oh, one of the Rectory boys. There are so many of them !
What I never can understand," cried Norah suddenly, " is the
difference among people. Mr. Dalton has eight children, and
mamma has only one ; now why 1 To be sure, it would have
been very expensive to have had Charlie and all the rest on so
little money as we have now. I suppose we could not have
done it. And, to be sure, God must have known that, and ar-
ranged it on purpose," the child said, stopping short with a puz-
zled look. " Oh, Dr. Maurice, when He knew it all, and could
have helped it if He pleased, why did He let them kill poor
papa 1"

" I do not know," said Dr. Maurice under his breath.

It was a relief to him when, a few minutes after, Helen ap-
peared at the garden door, having in the meantime overcome
her own feelings. They were all in a state of repression, the
one hiding from the other all that was strongest in them for
the moment. Such a thing is easily done at twelve years old.
Norah ran along the garden path to meet her mothbr, throw-
ing off the shadow in a moment. But for the others it was
not so easy. They met, and they talked of the garden, what a
nice old-fashioned garden it was, full of flowers such as one

AT fits OAtES.

215

rarely sees nowadays. And Dr. Maurice told Norah the names
of some of them, and asked if the trees bore well, and comment-
ed upon the aspect, and how well those pears ought to do upon
that warm wall. These are the disguises with which people
hide themselves when that within does not bear speaking of.
There was a great deal more to be told still, and business to be
discussed ; but first these perverse hearts had to be stilled some-
how in their irregular beating, and the tears which were too
near the surface got rid of, and the wistful, questioning
thoughts silenced.

A fter a while Dr. Maurice went to pay Stephen Haldane a
visit. He, too, was concerned in the business which brought the
doctor here. The two men went into it with more understand-
ing than Helen could have had. She wanted only that Golden
should be punished, and her husband's name vindicated — a
thing which it seemed to her so easy to do. But they knew
that proof was wanted — proof which was not forthcoming.
Dr. Maurice tuld Haldane what Helen gave him no opportunity
to tell her — ^that the lawyers were not sanguine. The books
which had disappeared were the only evidence upon which
Gulden's guilt and Drummond's innocence could be either
proved or disproved. And all the people about the office, from
the lowest to the highest, had been summoned to tell what
they knew about those books. Nobody, it appeared, had seen
them removed ; nobody had seen the painter carry them away ;
there was this negative evidence in his favour, if no other. But
there was nothing to prove that Golden had done it, or any
other person involved, and, so far as this was concerned, obscur-
ity reigned over the whole matter — an obscurity not pierced as
yet by any ray of light.

" At all events, we shall fight it out," said Dr. Maurice.
" The only thing to be risked now is a little money more or
less, and that, I suppose, a man ought to be willing to risk
for the sake of justice — myself especially, who have neither
chick nor child."

He said this in so dreary a way that poor Stephen smiled.
The man who was removed from any such delights — who could
never improve his own position in any way, nor procure for
himself any of the joys of life, looked at the man who thus
announced himself with a mixture of gentle ridicule and pity.

■^■tnr'.'xmmmimm mmmmimmMxiimaaisisAif. •*,)

216

AT HIS GATES.

lii'

** That at least must be your own fault/' he said ; and then
he thought of himself, and sighed.

No one knew what dreams might have been in Stephen
Haldane's mind before he became the wreck he was. Probably
no one ever would know. He smiled at the other, but for him-
self he could not restrain a sigh.

''I don't see how it can be said to be my own fault/', said
Dr. Maurice with a whimsical petulance. " There are preli-
minary steps, of course, which one might take — ^but not neces-
sarily with success — not by any means certainly, with suc-
cess. I tell you what, though, Haldane," he added hastily
after a pause, " I'd like to adopt Norah Drummond. That
is what I should like to do. I'd be very good to her ;
she should have everjrthing she could set her face to.
To start a strange child from the beginning, even if it were
one's own, is always like putting into a lottery. A baby is no
better than a speculation. How do you know what it may turn

out? whereas a creature like Norah Ah, that is what Ii

should like, to adopt such a child as that ! "

" To adopt — Norah 'i " Stephen grew pale. What ! to take
her from her mother ! to carry away the one little gleam of
Ught ! "

" She would be a gleam of light to me too," said Dr.
Maurice, "and I could do her justice. I could provide for
her. IJer mother, if she cared for the child's interest, ought
not to stand in the way. There ! you need not look so horror-
stricken. I don't mean to attempt it. I only say that is what
I should like to do."

But the proposal, even when so lightly made, took away
Stephen's breath. He did not recover himself for some time.
He muttered, " Adopt — ^Norah ! " under his breath while his
friend talked on other subjects. He could not forget it. He
made Dr. Maiirice a little speech when he rose to go away.
He put out his hand and grasped the other's arm in the ear-
nestness of his interest.

" Look here, Maurice," he said, " wealth has its temptation';
as well as poverty ; because you have plenty of money, if you
think you could make such a proposition "

" What proposition 1 "

" To take Norah from her mother. If you were to tempt

AT HIS QATEa

2117

Mrs. OvommoiKl for the ebild's sake to give up the child, b^
promising to provide for her, or whatever you might say-^if
you were to do that, God forgive you, Maurice — I know I never
could I"

*' Of course I shall not do it,'' said Maurice hastily. And
he went away with the feeling in his mind that this man, too,
was his rival, and his successful rival. The child was as good
as Stephen's child, though so far removed from himself. Dr.
Maurice was so far wrong that it was Helen Stephen was think-
ing oi, and not Norah. The child would be a loss to him ; Jbut
the loss of her mother would be so much greater that the very
thought of it oppressed his soul. He had grown to be Helen's
friend in the truest sense ; he had felt her sympathy to be al-
most too touching to him, almost too sweet ; and he could not
bear the possibility of seeing her deprived of her one solace.
He sat alone after Maurice had gone away (for his mother and
sister had left them to have their conversation unfettered by lis-
teners), and pondered over the possible fate of the mother and
child. The child would grow up ; in a very few years she would
be a woman ; she would marry, in all likelihood, and go away,
and belong to them no more ; and Helen would be left to bear
her lot alone. She would be left in the middle of her days to
carry her burden as she might, deserted by every love that
had once belonged to her. What a lot would that be ! — ^worse,
even, than his own, who, amid all his pains, had two hearts
devoted to him never to be disjoined from him but by death.
Poor Stephen, you would have supposed, was himself in the
lowest depths of human sufifering and solitude ; but yet he
looked down upon a lower still, and his heart bled for Helen,
who, it might be, would have to descend into that abyss in all
the fulness of her life and strength. What a sin would that
man's be, he thought, who arbitrarily, unnaturally, should try
to hasten on that separation by a single day !

Dr. Maurice went back to the. other side of the house, and
had his talk out quietly with Mrs. Drummond ; he told her
what he had told Haldane, while Norah looked at him over
her mother's chair, and listened to every word. To her he
Bald that it was the lawyer's opinion that they might do good
even though they proved nothing — they would stir up pub-
lic opinion ; they might open the way for further information.

218

AT HIS OATE&

And with this, perhaps, it might be necesssiy to he con^
tent.

" There is one way in which something might be possible,"
he said. " All the people about the office have been found
and called as witnesses, except one. That was the night-
porter, who might be an impoitant witness ; but I hear he lives
m the country, and has been lost sight of. He might know
something ; without that we have no proof whatever. I for
my own part should as soon think the sun had come out of the
skies, but Drummond, for some reason we know nothing of,
might have taken those books-

Are you forsaking him too ? " cried Helen in her haste.

" I am not in the least forsaking him, " said Dr. Maurice ;
" but how can we tell what had been said to him — what last
resource he had been driven to t If we could find that porter
there might be something done. He would know when tha^
were taken away." '

Helen made no answer ; she did not take the interest she
might have done in the evidence. She said softly, as if repeat-
ing to herself —

"Burton and Golden! Burton and Golden !" Could it be?
What communication could they have had t how could they have
been together 1 This thought confused her, and yet she be-
lieved in it as if it were gospel. She turned it over and over like
a strange weapon of which she did not know the use.

" Yes, something may come out of that. We may discover
some connection between them when everything is raked up
in this way. Norah thinks so too. Norah feels that they are
linked together somehow. Will you come with me to the
station, Norah, and see me away ? "

" We are both going," said Helen. And they put on their
bonnets and walked to the railway with him through the early
twilight. The lights were shining out in the village windows
as they passed, and in the shops, which made an illumination
here and there. The train was coming from town — men coming
from their work, ladies returning, who had been shopping in
London, meeting their children, who went to carry home the

Jmrcels, in pleasant groups. The road was full of a dozen
ittle domestic scenes, such as are to be seen only in the neigh-
bourhood of London. A certain envy was in the thoughts of

▲T ma OATKa

219

all three as they* passed on. Norah looked at the boys and girls
with a little sign, wondering how it would feel to have bro-
thers and sisters, to be one of a merry happy family. And Helen
looked at them with a different feeling, remembering the time
when she, too, had gone to meet her own people who were
coming home. As for Dr. Maurice, of course it was his
own fault. He had chosen to have nobody belonging to him,
to shut himself off from the comfort of wife and child. Yet he
was more impatient of all the cheerful groups than either of
the others. " Talk of the country being quiet ! it is more
noisy than town," he said ; he had just been quietly pushed off
the pavement by a girl like Norah, who was running to meet
her father. That should have been nothing to him surely, but
he felt injured. " I wish you would come with me and keep
my house for me, Norah." he said, with a vain harping on his
one string; and Norah laughed with gay freedom at the thought.
*♦ Good night, Dr. Maurice ; come back soon," she said, wavine
her hand to him, then turned away with her mother, and did
not even look back. He was quite sure about this, as he set-
tled himself in the corner of the carriage. So fond as he was
of the child ; so much as he would have liked to have done for
her ! And she never so much as looked back !

220

AT HIS OATE&

CHAPTER XXIII.

'HEN Helen and Norah emerged again out of the lights
of the little railway station to the darkness glimmer-
ing with a few lamps of the road outside, Mr.
Burton's phaeton was standing at the gate. The air was
touched with the first frost, there was a soft haze over the
distances, the lamps shone with a twinkling glow, and the
breath of the horses was faintly visible in the sharpened
air. Mr. Burton was standing talking to some one on the
pathway accompanied by his son Ned, who though he was but
a year older than Norah was nearly as tall as his father.
Helen's last interview with her cousin had not been pleasanu
enough to tempt her to linger now for any greeting, and her heart
was sore and wroth against him. She put her veil down over
her face, and hurried past. But Mr. Burton had seen her, and
long before this he had repented of his rudeness of last night.
Had it been successful, had he succeeded in bull3dng and fright-
ening her, he would have been perfectly satisfied with iiimself ;
but he had not succeeded, and he was sorry for the cruelty
which had been in vain. It was so much power wasted, and
his wisest course now was to ignore and disown what he had
done. He stopped short in his conversation, and made a step
after her.

"Ah, Helen!" he cried, "you out this cold evening!
Wait a moment, I will take you with me. I am going to pass
your door."

" Thanks," said Helen, "I think we prefer to walk." And
she was going resolutely on ; but she was not to be allowed so
easily to make her escape.

" One moment. I have something to say to you. If you
will not drive with me, I will walk with you," said Mr. Burton,
in his most genial mood. " Good evening, Tait, we can finish
our talk to-morrow. Well, and where have you been, you two
ladies 1 — seeing some one off by the train? Ned, see if you
can't amuse your cousin Norah while I talk to her mother.

±T HIS GATIS.

*lt:.

Helen, when you and I were that age I think We found more
to say."

*' I do not think we were great Mends — at that age/' said
Helen.

She had meant to say at any age ; bat the gravity of her
thoughts made such light utterances of her anger impossible.
When people are going to serious war with each other, they
may denounce and vituperate, but they rarely jibe.

** No ; I suppose it was at a latter period we were friends,"
Mr. Burton said, with a laugh. ** How circumstances alter !
I am afraid I made myself rather disagreeable last night.
When a man is bilious, he is not accountable for his actions :
and I had been worried in town ; but it was too bad to go and
put it out on you ; what I really wanted to ask last night was
if the house was quite in order for the winter 1 But something
brought on the other subject, and I lost my temper like an
idiot. I hope you won't think any more of it. And it is really
important to know if the house is in order — ^if you are prepared
to run the risk of frost, and all that. I was speaking to Tait,
the carpenter this moment. I think I shall send him just to
look over the house."

Helen made no reply ; this talk about nothing, this pretence
of ease and familiarity, was an insult to her. And Norah clung
close to her arm, enclosing it with both hands calling her
mother's attention to every new sentence with a closer pressure.
They went on for a few minutes before Mr. Burton could invent
anything more to say, and Ned stalked at Norah's other side
with all a boy's helplessness. He certainly was not in a con-
dition to help his father out.

" Ned has been up to town with me to-day," said Mr. Bur-
ton still more cheerfully. ** It will be a loss, but we must
make up our minds to send him to school. It is a disadvantage
to him being so tall ; every body thinks he is fifteen at least.
It is handy for you that Norah is so small. You can make a
baby of her for three or four years yet."

Here Norah squeezed her mother's arm so tight that Helen
winced with the pain, yet took a kind of forlorn amusement too
from the fury of -the child's indignation.

"Norah is no baby," she said, " happily for me ^ Norah ia
my best companion and comfort"

222

AT HIS GATES.

'' Ah yes ; she is in your confidence ; that is charming,"
said Mr. Burton ; " quite like a storv-book ; whereas Ned,
the great blockhead, cares for nothing but his dogs and non-
sense. But he shall be packed off to Eton directly. The
house is so full at present, my wife has been regretting we have
seen nothing of you, Helen. I suppose it is too early to ask
you to come to us under present circumstances) But after
a while, I hope, when we are alone — And Norah must come
before Ned goes away. There is to be a children's party.
What did your mother settle about that, Ned 1"

'' Don't know," growled Ned at Nurah's other side.

" Don't know ! Well you ought to know, since it's in your
honour. Clara will send you word, Helen. Now, I suppose I
must be off, or I shall not have time to dress. Why, by Jove,
there goes the bell already !" cried Mr. Burton.

He looked round, and the bays, which had been impatiently
following at a foot-pace, held in with dif&culty by the gioonl,
stopped at the sign he made, while the sonorous dinner-bell,
which rang twice every evening through all seasons, sounded its
first summons through the darkness. There was something
very awe-inspiring in the sound of that bell That as much as
anything, impressed the village and neighbourhood with a
sense of the importance of the master of Dura. The old Har-
courts had used it only on very great occasions ; but the Burtons
used it every evening. Ail the cooks in Dura village guided
themselves by its sound. *' Lord, bless us ! there's the bell
ag ling at the great house, and my chickens not put down to
roast yet," Mrs. Witherspoon at the Rectory would say, giving
herself such " a turn " as she did not get over all the evening.
Mr. Burton, too, got " a turn " when he heard it.

He cried, *' Good night, Helen ! Ned, come along," and he
jumped into his phaeton.
/:" I'll walk," shouted Ned.

And then there was a jingle, a flash, a dart, and the two bays
flew^ as it' something had stung them, along the frosty road.

** It will be a long walk for you up that dark avenue," said
Helen, when the boy, with his hands in his pockets, ^tood by
them at the door of the Gatehouse, hesitating with the awkward-
ness natural to his kind.

" Oh, I don't mind," said Ned.

*' Will you come in — and have some tea 1 '*

AT HIS GATES.

228

N'ever was an invitation more reluctantly given. When his
mother heard of it, it flashed through her mind that Mrs.
Drummond had constructed the first parallel, and that already
the siege of Ned, the heir of Dura, had begun ; but Helen had
no such idea. And Norah squeezed her arm wit;h a force of
indignation which once more, though she was not merry, made
her mother smile.

** Mamma, how could youl" Norah cried, when the boy had
come in, and had been left by the bright little fire in the
drawing-room to wat<)h the flickering of the lights while his
entertainers took ofif their bonnets ; " how could you ? It is I
who will have to talk to him and amuse him. It was selfish of
you, mamma !"

And Ned sat by the drawing-room fire alone, repenting him-
self that he had been seduced, in his big boots, with mud on
his stockings, into this unknown place. It was not actually
unknown to him ; he had broken the old china cups and
thumped upon the piano, and done his best to put his fingers
through the old curtains more than once while the place was
empty. But he did not understand the change that had passed
upon it now. He sat by the fire confused ; wondering how he
had ever had the courage to come in ; wondering if Mrs. Drum-
mond would think him dirty, and what Norah would say. He
would not have to put himself into velvet and silk stockings
and show himself in the drawing-room at home, that was a
comfort. But what unknown mazes of conversation, what
awful abysses of self-betrayal might there be before him here I
Norah came in first, which at once frightened an*^ relieved him.
And the room was pretty — the old homely neutral-tinted room,
with the lively gleam of firelight lighting it up, and all the
darkness made rosy in the corners, which was so different from
the drawing-room at the great house, with its gilding and
grandeur, its masses of flowers and floods of light. Ned's head
felt very much confused by the difference ; but the strangeness
awed him in spite of himself.

" I am always frightened in this room," said Norah, drawing
the biggest chair into the circle of the firelight, and putting
herself into it like a little queen. She was so small that her
one foot which hung down did not reach the floor ; the other, I

AT HIS OATES.

tcta BOtry to naj, so regaiylless was Norah of deconim, Was
tueked libd^r her in the big chair.

« What a funny girl you are ! Why V*

" Do you see that cupboard T* said Norah. " I know there
is an old woman Who lives there, and spins and spins, and keeps
looking at me, till I daren't breathe. Oh, I think sometimes
if I lo^ up it will turn me to stone, that eye of hers. If you
weren't here I shouldn't dare to say it ; I am most frishtcned
for her in the day, when the light comes in at all the windows,
imdall the pictures and things say, ^What's that little girl doing
here V AiSi then the mirror up on the wall — There's two people
in it I know, now. You will say it's you and me ; but it isn't
you and me. It's our ghosts, perhaps, sitting so still, and look-
ing at each other and never saying a word."
' ' Ned felt a shiver run over him as he listened. He thought
of the dai^ avenue which he had to go through all by himselfi
and wished he had driven with his father instead. And there
where he was sitting he just caught that curious little round mir-
ror, and there were two people in it — nevermoving, never speak-
ing, just as Norah said.

** There is always a feeling as if somebody were by in this
house," Norah went on, " somebody /ou can't see. Oh, it is

2uite true. You can't go anjrwhere, up or down, but they
livays keep looking and looking at you. I bear it as long as I
can, and then I get up and run away. I should not mind so
much if I could see them, or if they were like the ladies
that wsdk about and rustle with long silk trains going over
the floor, as they do in some old houses. But the ones
here are so still ; they just look at you for hours and hours
together, till you get into such a dreadful fright, and feel you
can't bear it any longer and rush away." Just then there was
the sound of a little fall of ashes from the fire which made
Ned start ; and then he laughed hoarsely, frightened, but de-
fiant.

** You are making it all up out of your own head to frighten a
fellow," he said.

" To frighten — a fellow !" said Norah, with gentle but
ixkeffable contempt. " What have I to do with — ^fellows 1 It
brightens tne.
And she gave a little shudder in her big chair, and shook her

AT HIS GATES.

225

head, waving her brown hair about her shoulders. Perhaps the
colour of her hair would not have showed so much but for the
black frock with its little white frill that came to the throat ;
and the firelight found out Norah's eyes, and kindled two lamps
in them. She was all made up of blackness and brightness, a
shadow child, not much of her apparent except the pale face
and the, two lights in her eyes — unless, indeed, it were that 6be
leg, hanging down from under the black frock, with a white
stocking on it, and a varnished, fire reflecting shoe.

Never in Ned's life had he experienced anything like this
before ; the delicious thrill of visionary terror made the actual
pleasantness of the warm corner he sat in all the pleasanter ;
he had thought himself past the age to have stories told to him ;
but nothing like Norah's visions had ever come in his way.
No happiness, however, is perfect in this world. The dark
avenue would come across him by moments with a thrill of terror.
But the old woman could not sit and spin, that was certain, in
the dark, windy, lonely avenue ; there would be no mirror there
to reflect his passing figure ; and he would run ; and if the
dogs were about they would come to meet him ; so the boy
took courage and permitted himself to enjoy this moment,
which was a novelty in his life. Then Mrs. Drummond came
in with her black dress like Norah's, and the long white streamers
to her cap, which looked like wings, he thought. Her sorrow-
ful look, her soft voice, that air about her of something subdued
and stilled, which had not always been so, impressed the boy's
imagination. Ned was an honest, single-hearted boy, and he
looked with awe upon any suflFering which he could understand.
He explained afterwards that Helen looked as if she were very
sorry about something. " " Awfully sorry — ^but not bothering,"
he said ; and the look of self-control impressed him, though he
could not tell why. Altogether it was so different from home ;
80 much more attractive to the imagination. There was no
dimness, no shadows at the great house. There nobody ever
sat in the firelight, nor " took things into their heads ;" and
here everything was so shadowy, so soft, so variable ; the fire-
light gleaming suddenly out now and then, the air so full of
mystery. Everything that is strange is attractive to the young
fancy to begin with ; and there was more than simple novelty
here.

226

AT HIS GATES.

Helen brought the lamp in her hand and set it down on the
table, which to some extent disturbed his picture ; and then
she came and sat down by the children, while Susan — old Susan,
who was a landmark to Ned, keeping him to reality in the
ihidst of all this wonderfulness — brought in and arranged the
tea.

" Are you sure they will not be anxious )" said Helen.' " I
am afraid your mother will be unhappy about you when she
finds you don't come.,'

" Oh, she'll never find out," said Ned. " Unhappy ! I don't
suppose mamma would be unhappy for that ; but I'll get home
before they come out from dinner. I shan't dress though, it
would be absurd, at nine o'clock."

" It will be a dark walk for you up the avenue," said Helen,
kindly ; and when she said this Ned shrank into his comer and
shivered slightly. She added, " You are not afraid 1" 1

" Oh no — I should hope not ! " said Ned.

"I should be afraid," said Norah tranquilly; "the wind in
the trees always makes me feel strange. It sounds so moaning
and dreary, as if it were complaining. We don't do it any
harm that it should complain* It is like something that is in
prison and wants to get out. Do you know any stories about
forest spirits 1 I dont like them very much ; they are always
dwarfs, or trolls, or something grim — funny little men, hairy
all over, that sit under the trees with their long arms, and dart
out when you pass."

Ned gave another suppressed shiver in his corner, and Helen
came to his aid.

" Norah has read nothing but fairy tales all her life," she
said ; ** but I daresay you know a great deal more than she
does, and don't care for such foolish things. You are going to
Eton 1 I was once there when all the boats were out, and
there were fireworks at night. It was so pretty. I daresay
when you are there you will get into the boats."

" I shall try," said Ned, lighting up. " I mean to be very
good at athletics if I can. It does not matter if I work very
hard, for I am going into papa's business, where I shkn't want
it. I am not going to Eton to work, but to get among a good
set, and to do what other people do."

" Ah ! " said Helen, with a smile. She took but a languid

AT HIS GATES.

227

interest in Ned, and she was scarcely sorry that Mr Burton's
son showed no likelihood of distinguishing himself. She
accepted it quite quietly ; without any interest in the
matter, which somehow troubled Ned, he could not have told
why.

« At least, they say you are not obliged to work," he said, a
little abashed. " I shall do as much as I can at that too."

And then there was a momentary silence, broken only by
the ring of the teacups as Susan put them down. Ned had a
feeling that no very profound interest was shown in his prospect
and intentions, but he was used to that. He sat quite quiet,
feeling very shy, and sadly troubled to find that Susan had placed
the lamp where it threw its strongest light upon himself. He
drew his muddy boots and stockings as much as he could under
his chair, and hoped Mrs. Drummond would not notice them ;
how foolish he had been to come, making an exhibition of him-
self ! and yet it was very pleasant, too.

'* Now you must come to the table and have some tea," said
Helen, placing a chair for him with her own hand. Ned knew
it was a gentleman's duty to do this for a lady, but he was so
confused he did not feel capable of behaving like anything but
a loutish boy ; he turned everything he could think of as a
pleasant subject of conversation over in his mind, with the
idea of doing what he could to make himself agreeable ; but
nothing wnuld come that he could produce. He sat and got
through a great deal of bread and butter while he cudgelled
his brains in this way. There was not much conversation.
Helen was more silent than usual, having so much to think of;
and Norah was amused by the unusual specimen of humanity
before her, and disti*acted from the monologue with which she
generally filled up all vacant places. At last Ned's efforts re-
solved themselves into speech.

"Oh, Mrs. Drummond, please, should you like to have a
dog 1 " he said.

" I knew he was a doggy sort of a boy," Norah said to her-
self, throwing a certain serious pity into her contemplation of
him. But yet the ofifer was very interesting, and suggested
various excitements to come.

" What kind of a dog ? " said Helen, with a smile.

" Oh, we have two or three different kinds. I was thinking,

228

AT HIS GATES.

perhaps, a nice little Skye — ^like Shaggy, hut smaller. Or if
you would like a retriever, or one of old Dinah's pups."

" Thanks," said Helen. " I don't know what we should do
with it, Ned ; but it is very kind of you."

" Oh, no," said the boy, with a violent blush. " It would be
a companion for — her, you know. It is so nice to have a dog
to play with. Why, Shaggy does everything but talk. He
knows every word I say. You might have Shaggy himself, if
you like, while I am away."

" Oh, what a nice boy you are ! " said Norah. " I should
like it, Ned. Mamma does not want anything to play with ;
but I do. Give it to me ! I should take such care of him !
And then when you came home for the holidays, I should pro-
mise to take him to the station to meet you. I love Shaggy —
he is such fun. He can't see out of his eyes ; and he does so
frisk and jump, and make an object of himself. I never kneiw
you were such a nice boy ! Give him to me."

And then the two ^ell into the most animated discussion, while
Helen sat silent and looked on. She forgot that the boy was
her enemy's son. He was her cousin's son ; some drops of
blood-kindred to her ran in his veins. He was an honest, simple
boy. Mrs. Drammond brightened upon him, according to her
nature. She was not violently fond of children, but she could
not shut her heart against an ingenuous open face. She scarcely
interfered with the conversation that followed, except to subdue
the wild generosity v^ith which Ned proposed to send every-
thing he could think of to Norah. " There are some books
about dogs, that will tell you just what to do. I'll tell John to

bring them down. And there's Are you very fond of books ?

You must have read thousands and thousands, I am sure.

" Not so many as that," Norah said modestly. " But I have
got through — some."

" I could lend you — ^I am sure I could lend you — Papa has got
a great big library ; I forget how many volumes. They are
about everything that books were ever written about. We
never read them, except mamma, sometimes ; but if you would
like them "

" You must not give her anjrthing more," said Helen ; " and
even the dog must only come if your people are willing, You
are too young to make presents."

AT HIS GATES.

229

" T am not so very young," cried Ned, who had found his
voice. " I am near fourteen. When Cyril Rivers was my age,
he was captain of fourth form ; — he told me himself. But then
he is very clever — much cleverer than me. Norah ! if I should
only he ahle to send Shaggy's puppy, not Shaggy himself, shall
you mind 1"

" Are you sure you will not be afraid to walk up the avenue
alone ? " said Mrs. Drummond, rising from the table. " I fear
it will be so very dark ; and we have no one to send with you,
Ned."

" Oh, I don't want any one," said the boy ; and he stumbled
up to his feet, and put out his hand to say good night, feeling
himself dismissed. Norah went to the door with him to let him
out. "Oh, I wish I could go too," said Norah ; " it is so lonely
walking in the dark; but then I should have to get back.
Oh, I do wish you could stay. Don't you think you could
stay a There are hundreds of rooms we don't use. Well, then,
good night. I will tell you what I shall do. I shall stand at
the door here and watch. If you should be frightened, you
can shout, and I will shout back ; and then you will always
know that I am here. It is such a comfort when one is fright-
ened to know there is some one there."

" I shan't be frightened," said Ned boldly. And e walked
with the utmost valour and the steadiest step to the Hall gates,
feeling Norah's eyes upon him* Then he stopped to shout
— « Good night ; all right 1"

" Good night !" rang through the air in Norah's treble. And
then, it must be allowed, when he heard the door of the Gate-
house shut, and saw by the darkness of the lodge windows
that old John and his daughter had gone to bed, that Ned's
heart failed him a little. A wild recollection crossed his mind
of the dwarfs, with their long arms, under the trees ; and of the
old woman spinning, spinning, with eyes that fixed upon you
for hours together ; and then, with his heart beating, he made
one plunge into the gloom, under the overarching trees.

This is how Ned and Norah, knowing nothing about it, made,
so they each described the process afterwards, " real friends."
The bond was cemented by a gift of Shaggy's puppy some
days after, and it was made permanent and eternal by the fact
that very soon afterwards Ned went away to school.

'ii.

280

AT HIS OATISL

CHAPTER XXIV.

SEAN WHILE the great case of Rivera's bank oame before
the law courts and the public. It was important
enough — for there was no war in those days — to be
announced in big capitals on the placards of all the newspapers.
The Great Bank Case — Arrest of the DirecUns — Strange Disclosures
in the Cit'if — were the headings in the bills, repeated from day
to day, and from week to week as the case went on. It was of
course doubly attractive from the fact that it was founded upon
a tragedy, and that every writer in the papers who referred to it
at all was at liberty to bring in a discussion of the motives and
intentions of " the unhappy man " who had introduced "'a
watery grave" into the question. A watery grave may not be
pleasant for the occupant of it, but it is a very fine thing for ^he
press. The number of times it appeared in the public prints at
this period defies reckoning. In some offices the words were
kept pennanently in type. The DaUy Seiaaphore was never
tired of discussing what the feelings of the wretched man must
have been when he stole down to the river just as all the world
was going to rest, and plunged himself and his shame, and the
books of the company under the turbid waters. The Daily
Semaphore held this view of the matter very strongly, and
people said that Mr. Golden belonge4 to the same club as
itseditor, and that the two were intimate, which, of course, was
a very natural reason for its partisanship. Other journals,
however, held different opinions. The weekly reviews, less
addicted to fine writing, leaned to the side of the unfortunate
painter. Their animadversions were chiefly upon the folly of
a man interfering with business who knew nothing about it.
When would it come to be understood, they said, that every
profession required a training for itself, and that to dabble in
the stocks without knowing how, was as bad, or at least as
foolish, and more ruinous than to dabble in paint without
knowing how. There was a great deal about the suitor, who
should stick to his last in these discussions of the subject ; but,

AT HIS GATES.

231

except in this particular, neither the Sword nor the Looker-on
had a stone to throw at poor Drummond. Peace to his ashes
they said, he was a good painter. *' During his lifetime we
thought it our duty to point out the imperfections which
lessened the effect of his generally most conscientious and
meritorious work. It is the vocation of a critic, and happy is
he who can say he han never exceeded the legitimate hounds of
criticism, never given utterance to a hasty word, or inflicted
unnecessary pain. Certain we are, for our own part, that our
own aim has always heen to temper judgment with charity; and
now that a gap has been made in so melancholy a manner in
the ranks of the Academy, we may venture to say that no man
better deserved his elevation to the first rank of his profession
than Robert Drummond ; no man we have ever known worked
harder, or threw himself more entirely into his work. His feel-
ing for art was always perfect Now and then he might fail to
express with sufficient force the idea he intendod to illustrate ;
but for harm<my of conception, true sense of beauty, and tender
appreciation of English sentiment and atmosphere, he has been
surpassed by no painter of our modern school We understand
that an exhibition of his collected works is in contemplation, a
plan which has been lately adopted with great success in so
many cases. We do not doubt that a great *many of our
readers will avail themselves at once of the opportunity of
forming a comprehensive judgment of the productions of a most
meritorious artist, as well as of paying their tribute of sympathy
to the, wti firmly believe, undeserved misfortunes of an honest
and honourable man."

It was thus the Looker-on expressed its sentiments. The
Sword did not attempt to take up the same tone of melancholy
superiority and noble-mindedness — qualities not in its way ;
but it made its stand after its own fashion against the ruthless
judgments of the public. " No one cm respect the British
public more than we do," said that organ of the higher intellect ;
'' its instincts are so unerring, and its good taste so unimpeach-
able, that, as a matter of course, we all bow to a decision more
infallible than that of the Holiest Father that ever sat in Papal
See. But after we have rendered this enlightened homage, and
torn our victim.to pieces, an occasional compunction will make
itself audible within the most experienced bosom. Aft^r all,

232

AT HfS QATEfL

tliere is gach a thing as probability to be taken into account
Trathy as we all knoir, is stranger than fiction ; but j^et the
cases are so few in which fact outrages every likelihood that we
are justified in looking very closely into the matter before we
give an authoritative assent. So far as our personal knowledge
goes, we should say that a painter is as much afraid of the
money market as a woman is (or rather used to be) of a revolver,
and that the dramatic completeness of the finale, which the
lively commercial imagination has accepted as that of poor
Drummond, quite surpasses the homelier and mildet* invention
of the daughters of art. A dramatic author, imbued with the
true modern spirit of his art, might indeed find an irresistible
attraction in the * situation ' of the drowning director, tossing
the books of the joint-stock company before him into the abyss,
and sardonically going down into Hades with the proofs of his
guilt. But though the situation is fine, we doubt if even thei
dramatist would personally avail himself of i% for dramatists
have a way of being tame and respectable like their neighbours.
In our days your only emulator of the piratical and highway
heroes of the past is the commercial man pur sang, who has not
an idea in his head unconnected with business. It is he who
convulses society with those witticisms and clevernesses of
swindling which charm everybody ; and it is he who gives us
now and then the example of such a tragical conclusion as used
to belong only to poetry. It is no longer the Bohemian, it is
the Philistine, smug, clean, decorous, sometimes pious, who is
the criminal of the nineteenth century."

This article made a great sensation in many circles. There
were people who thought it was almost a personal libel, and
that Golden would be justified in " taking steps" against the
paper, for who could that smug, clean, decorous Philistine be
but he 1 But the manager was better advised. He was the
hero of the day to all readers and writers. He was kept under
examination for a whole week, badgered by counsel, snubbed
by the judge, stared at by an audience which was not generally
favourable ; but yet he held his own. He was courageous, if
nothing else. All that could be done to him in the ^ay of
cross-examination never made him falter in his story. Other
piedes pf information damaging to his character were produced
by the researches of the attorneys. It was found that the fate

AT HIS OATI&

233

of aO the speonlfltions in which he had heen invohred wie tiia-
picioualy , similar, and that, notwithstanding those buriness
talents which eveiybodv allowed to be of the highest order, rain
and bankroptcy had followed at his heels wherever he went.
The counsel fcH: the prosecution paid him unbounded compli-
ments on his ability, mingled with sarcastic condolence on this
strange and unfailing current of misfortune. He led the wit-
ness into a survey of his past life with deadly accuracy and
distinctness, damning hi«n before all the world, as history only
can damn. " It is unfortunate that this should have happened
to you again after your previous disappointments," he said.
"Yes, it was unfortunate," said the unhappy man. Bat he held
such head against the torrent of facts thus brought up, that the
sympathy of many people ran strongly in his favour for the
moment. " Hang it all i which of us could stand this turn-up of
everything that ever happened to him )" some said. Gulden con-
fronted it all with the audacity of a man who knew everything
that could be said against him ; and he held steadily by his story.
He admitted that Drummond had done nothing in the business
and indeed knew next to nothing about it until that day in
autumn, when, in the absence of all other officials, he had him-
self had recourse to him. " But the more inexperienced a
man may be, the more impetuous he is — in business ; when
once he begins," said the manager. And that there was truth in
this, nobody could deny. But gradually as the trial went on, ■
certain mists cleared off and other mists descended. The story .
about poor Drummond and the books waned from the popular
mind ; it was dropped out of the leading articles in the Sema-
phore. If they had not gone into the river with the painter,
where were they ? Who had removed them ? Were they
destroyed, or only hidden somewhere, to be found by the mir-
aculous energy of the police 'i This question began to be the
question which everybody discussed after a while ; for by this
time, though proof was as far off as ever, and nobody knew who
was the guilty party, there had already fallen a certain silence,
a something like respect, over that " watery grave."

And something more followed, which Helen Drummond
scarcely understood, and which was never conveyed in words
to the readers of the newspapers — ^a subtile, unexpressed sen-
timent, which had no evidence to back it, but only that strange

!<«1

}')\

234

AT HIS GATES.

tiiTiU of certainty which moves men's minds in spite of them-
selves. '*! would just like to know what state Rivera's was
in before it became a joint-stock company," was the most dis-
tinct expression of opinion any one was guilty of in public ;
and the peraons to whom this speech was addressed would
shake their heads in reply. The consequence was one which
nobody could have distinctly accounted for, and which no one
ventured to speak of plainly. A something, a breath, a mist,
an intangible shadow, gathered over the names of the former
partners who had managed the whole business, and transferred
It to the now company. These were Mr. Burton and another,
who has nothing to do with this history. In what condition
had they handed it over ] What induced them to dispose of
such a flourishing business? And why was it that both had
got so easily out of it with less loss than many a private share-
holder ? ■ These were very curious questions, and took an im-i
mense hold on the public mind, though they were not discussed^
in the newspapers : for there are many things which move the
public mind deeply, which it would not answer to put in the
newspapers. As for Lord Rivers, he was a heavy loser, and
nobody suspected for a moment that he knew anything about
it The City men were sorry for him as a victim ; but round
the names of Mr. Burton and his colleagues there grew that in-
definable shadow. Not a word could be said openly against
them ; but everybody thought the more. They were flourish-
ing, men in great business — keeping up great houses, wearing
all the appearance of prosperity. No righteous critic turned
his back upon them. At kirk and market they were as much
applauded, as warmly received, to all outward appearance, as
ever. But a cold breath of distrust had come rouud them, like
&D. atmosphere. The first prick of the canker had come to this
flower.

This was the unrecorded, undisclosed result of the inquiry with
which Helen Drummond, and the Haldanes, and all uninstruct-
ed, were so deeply dissatisfied. It had ended in nothing, they
said. The managers and directors were acquitted, there being
no proof against them. No authoritative contradictipn had
been or could be given to the theory of Robert Drummond's
guilt. The Semaphore was still free to produce that " watery
grave " any time it was in want of a phrase to round a para-

AT HIS OATSS.

2d5

grapli. Their hearts had been wrung with the details of the
terrible story all over again, and — nothing had come of it '* I
told you it would be so," Mr. Burton said, who knew so much
better. " It would have been much more sensible had you
persuaded Maurice to leave it alone." But Maurice had a dif-
ferent tale to tell when he came to make his report to his anx-
ious clients. He bewildered them with the air of triumrph
he put on. "But nothing is proved," said Helen sadly.
" No, nothing is proved," he said, " but everything is imput-
ed." She shook her head, and went to her room, and knelt
down before the Dives, and offered up to it, meaning no harm,
what a devout Catholic would call an acte de reparatimi — an of-
fering of mournful love and indignation — ^and, giving that,
would not be comforted. " They cannot understand you, but
I understand you, Robert," she said, in that agony of com-
punction and tenderness with which a true woman tries to
make up to the dead for the neglect and coldness of the living.
This was how Helen, in her ignorance, looked upon it. But
Stephen Haldane understood better when he heard the tale.
Golden, at least, \f luld never hold up his head again — or, at
least, if ever, not for long years, till the story had died out of
men's minds. And the reputation of others had gone down as
by a breath. No one could tell what it was ; but it existed —
the first shadow, the beginning of suspicion. " I am satisfied,"
Dr. Maurice said, with a stern smile of triumph. The man
had thrown himself entirely into the conflict, and took pleasure
in that sweet savour of revenge.

" But Mrs. Drummond," said Stephen, whose mind was mov-
ed by softer thoughts.

" That woman cannot understand," said Dr. Maurice. ** Oh,
I do not mean any slight to your goddess, your heroine. I
may say she is not my heroine, I suppose ? She can't under-
stand. Why, Drummond is clear with everybody whose opin-
ion is worth having. We have proved nothing, of course. I
knew we could prove nothing. But he is as clear as you or I
— with all the people who are worth caring for. She expected
me to bring her a diploma, I suppose, under the Queen's hand
and seal."

•*I did not expect that," sa'i Haldane, "but I did look for
something more definite, I allow."

!!W|

tse

AT HI8 OATSS.

*' More definite I " It is a little hard to deal with people so
exigent/' said Dr. Maurice, discomfited in the midst of his en-
thusiasm. " Did you see that article in the Looker-on ? The
Drummond exhibition is just about to open ; and that, I am
confident, will be an answer in full. I believe the public will
take that opportunity of proving what they think."

And so far Maurice turned out to be right. The public did
show its enthusiasm— for two days. The first was a private
view, and everybody went. The rooms were crowded, and
there were notices in all the papers. The next day there was
also a very fair attendance ; and then the demonstration on
the part of the public stopped. Poor Drummond was dead.
He had been a good but not a great painter. His story had
occupied quite as much attention as the world had to give him,
perhaps more. He and his concerns — his bankruptcy, his sui-
cide, and his pictures — had become a bore. Society wanted
to hear no more of him. The exhibition continued open for '
several weeks, not producing nearly enough to pay its expenses,
and then it was closed ; and Drummond's story came to an
end, and was heard of no more.

This is the one thing that excited people, wound up to a
high pitch by personal misfortune or suffering, so seldom un-
derstand. They are prepared to encounter scurrility, opposi-
tion, even the hatred or the enmity of others ; but they are not
prepared for the certain fact that one time or other, most like-
ly very soon, the world will get tired of them ; it is their worst
danger. This was what now happened to the Drummonds ;
but fortunately at Dura, in the depths of the silent country, it
was but imperfectly that Helen knew. She was not aware
how generally public opinion acquitted her husband, which was
hard ; and she did not Know that the world was tired of him,
which was well for her. He was done with, and put aside
like a tale that is told ; but she still went on planning in her
own mind a wider vindication for him, an acquittal which this
time it should be impossible to gainsay.

And quietness fell upon them, and the months began to flow
on, and then the years, with no incident to disturb the calm.
When all the excitement of the trial was over, and everything
done that could be done, then the calm reign of routine began.
There were times, no doubt, in which Helen chafed and fretted

AT HIS GATES.

237

to a

at it ; but yet routine is a great support and comfort to the
worn and weary. It supplies a kind of dull motive to keep life
going when no greater motives exist. The day always com-
menced with Norah's lessons. Helen was not an intellectual
woman, nor did she feel herself consciously the better for such
education as she had herself received ; but such as she had re-
ceived it she transmitted it conscientiously to Norah. She
heard her read every morning a little English and a little
French. She made her write a succession of copies, and do ex-
ercises in the latter language, and she gave her an hour's music.
I fear none of this was done with very much spirit, but yet it
was done conscientiously every morning of their lives except
Sunday, when they went to church. She did it because it was
right, because it was necessary, and her duty ; but not with
any strong sense of the elevated character of her employment,
or expectation of any vast results from it. It had not produced
very great results in heraelf. Her mind had worked busily
enough all her life, but she did not believe that her music, or
her French, or anything else she had learned had done her
much good. Therefore she proceeded very calmly, almost cold-
ly, with the same process with Norah. It was necessary, it
had to be done, just as vaccination had to be done when the
child was a baby ; that was about all.

Then after the lessons they had their homely dinner, which
Susan did not always cook to perfection ; and then they took
their walk ; and in the evening there were lessons to be learn-
ed and needlework to do. When the child went to bed, the
mother read — not anything to improve her mind. She was
not bent upon improvement, unfortunately ; indeed, it did not-
occur to her. She read, for the most part, novels from the circu-
lating library. The reader, perhaps, is doing the same thing
at this moment, and yet, most likely, he will condemn, or even
despise, poor Helen. She had one or two books besides, books
of poetry, though she was not poetically disposed in any way.
She had '' In Memoriam " by her, which she did not read (does
any one who has ever lived in the valley ol the shadow of
death read " In Memoriam ? ") but pored over night and day,
thinking in it, scarcely knowing that her own mind had not
spoken first in these words. And then there was Mr. Brown-
ing's poem of " Andrea," the painter who had a wife. Helen

-' ■■. w: V* ■•«f*&wmmmt

AT HIS GATES.

woald sit over the fire and watch it dying out at her feet, and
ponder on Andrea's fate — wondering whether, perhaps, a wo-
man might do hadly for her husband, -and yet be a spotless wo-
man, no Lucrezia ; whether she might sap the strength out of
him with gentle words, and even while she loved him do
him harm? Out of such a question as this she was glad to es-
cape to her novel, the first that might come to hand.

And so many persons in Helen's state of mind read novels
— ^people who fly into the world of fiction as a frightened child
flies into a lighted room, to escape the ghosts that are in the
dark passages and echoing chambers — that it is strange so lit-
tle provision is made for them, and that the love-story keeps
uppermost in spite of all. Yet perhaps the love-story is the
safest. The world-worn sufferer is often glad to forget all that
reminds him of his own trouble, and even when he is not
touched by the fond afflictions of the young people, finds a lit4
tie pleasure in smiling at them in the exuberance of tlieir misery.
They think it is so terrible, poor babies, to be ** crossed in
love." The fact that they cannot have their own way is so as-
tounding to them, something to rouse earth and heaven. Helen
ran over a hundred tales of this description with a grave
face, thankful to be interested in the small miseries which
were to her own as the water spilt from a pitcher is to the sea.
To be sure,. there were a great many elevating and improving
books which Helen might have had if she pleased, but nobody
had ever suggested to her that it was necessary she should
improve her mind.

And thus the time went on, and Mrs. Drummond dropped,
as it were, into the background, into the shade and quietness
of life. She was still young, and this decadence was prema-
ture. She felt it creeping upon her, but she took no pains
to stop the process. So long as Norah was safe there was no-
thing beside for which she was called upon to exert herself ;
and thus, with all her powers subdued, and the stream of life
kept low, she lived on, voluntarily suppressing herself, as so
many women do. And in the meantime new combinations
were preparing, new personages were coming upon the scene.
While the older people stood aside, the younger ones put on
their singing garments, and came forward with their flowery
wreaths, with the sunshine upon their heads, to perform their

AT HIS GATES.

289

romance, like the others before them, and so it happened that
life had stolen imperceptibly away, so noiseless and soft that
no one knew of its going, until all at once there came a day
when its progress could no longer be ignored. This was the
day when Norah Drummond, eighteen years old, all decked
and dressed by her mother's hands, spotless and radiant as
the rose in her hair, with her heart full of hopes, and her eyes
full of light, and no cloud upon her from all the tragic ihists
through which her youth had passed, went up the long avenue
at Dura to the House which was brilliant with lamps and gay
with music, to make her first appearance, as she thought, in
the world. Norah's heart was beating, her gay spirit dancing
already before she reached the door.

" Oh, I wonder, mamma, I wonder," she said " what will
happen 1 will anything happen to-night 1" What could happen
to her by her mother's side, and among her old friends ) She
did not know; she went out to meet it gaily. But Norah
found it impossible to believe that this first triumphant even-
ing, this moment of glory and delight, could pass away like
the other evenings ; that there should not be something in it,
something unknown, sweet, and yet terrible, which should afifeot
all her iSe.

S40

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XXV.

GIRL'S first ball ! What more full of ecstasy could be
breathed in this dull world ! A vague, overwhelming
vision of delight before she goes into it— -all bright-
ness, and'poetry, and music and flowers, and kind admiring faces;
everything converging towards herself as a centre, not with any
selfish sense of enjoyment, but sweetly, spontaneously, as to the
natural queen. A hundred unexpected, inexpressible emotions
go to make up this image of partidise. There is the first glow
and triumph of power which is at once a surprise to her and
a joy. The feeling that she has come to the kingdom — that sl^e
herself has become the fair woman whose sway she has read of
all her life ; the consciousness, at last, that it is real, that wo-
manhood is supreme in her person, and that the world bows
down before her in her whiteness and brightness, in her shame-
facedness and innocent confidence, in her empire of youth.
She is the Una whose look can tame the lion ; she is the prin-
cess before whose glance the whole world yields ; and yet at
the same time, being its queen, is she not the world's sweet hand-
maid, to scatter flowers in its path, and dance and sing to make
it glad 1 All these thoughts are in the girl's mind, especially
if she be a fanciful girl — though, perhaps, she does not find
words to express any of them ; and this it is which throws
such a charm to her upon the pleasure-making, which to us
looks sometimes so stale and so poor.

And it is only after a long interval — ^unless her case be an
exceptionally hard one — ^tbats he gets disenchanted. When
she goes into the fairy palace, she finds in it all that she
thought : all, with the lively delight of personal enjojrment
added, and that flattery of admiring looks, of unspoken hom-
age, not to the ideal princess, or representative woman, but to
her, which is so sweet and so new. Thus Norah DrhmmoDd
entered the ball-room at Dura House, floating in, as it were,
npon the rays of light that surrounded her — ^tne new woman,
the latest successor of Eve in the garden, unexacling queen of

AT BtS OATSS.

the fresli world she had entered into, fearing no rivalei — ^nay,
reigning in the persons of her rivals as weU as in her own.
And when she had thus made her entrance in an abstract tri-
umph, waking suddenly to individual consciousness, remember-
ing that she was still Norah, and that people were looking at
her, wondering at her, admiring her — her, and not anothiir —
she laughed as a child laughs for nothing, for delight, as she
stood by her mother's side. It was too beautiful and wonder-
ful to be shy of it.

" Pinch me, mamma, and it will all pass away like the other
dreams," she whispered, holding fast by her mother's arm.
But the curious thing, the amazing thing was, that it continu-
ed, and warmed her and dazzled her, and lighted her up, and
did not pass away.

" Norah, come ! you are to dance this dance with me," cried
Ned, rushing up. He had seen them come in, though he was
in the other nr^^ of the room : he had watched for them since
the first note r»r ^? music struck ; he had neglected the duty
to which he b . n en specially appropriated, the duty of look-
ing after and amusing and taking care of the two fair daugh-
ters of the Marchioness who was as good as Lady Patroness
of Mrs Burton's Ball. To keep up the proper contrast, I am
aware that Lady Edith and Lady Florizel should have been
young women of a certain age, uninviting, and highly aristo-
cratic, while Norah Drummond had all the beauty and sweet-
ness, as well as poverty and lowliness, to recommend her ; but
this, I am sorry to confess, was not the case. The Ladies Mere-
wether were very pretty girls, as pretty as Norah ; they were
not " stuck up" but as pleasant and as sweet as English girls
need be — indeed, except that they were not Norah, I know no
fault they had in Ned's eyes. But they were not Norah, and
he forsook his post. Nobody ^noticed the fact much except
Mrs. Burton. As for Lady Florizel, she had the most unfeign-
ed good-humoured contempt for Ned. He was a mere boy, she
said : she had no objection to dance with him, or chatter to
him * but she had in her reach two hundred as good, or better,
than him, and she preferred men to boys, she did not hesitate
to say. So that when Ned appeared by Norah's side, Lady
Florizel, taking her place with her partner, smiled upon him
as he passed, and asked audibly, " Oh, who was that pretty

1 Jiiil

I 11

IJ'S

^42

AX B|s qA'W-

^rl with Mr. Burtoi^l oh how prpljty «hpi ww J ClQuWn't a^^y-
bociy tell her?" Lady Florizel was npi oQi^nded. B\i^ Mi^.
^ur(oD 8a Wy and was wroth.

Mapy changes had happened in those six years. At the time
of the trial and after it there had heen many douhts and spec-
ulations in Helen's mind as to what she should do. Suspect-
ii^g l^er cousin as she did, and with Rohert's judgment against
him, as recorded in that last mournful letter, how was she to
go on accepting a shelter from her cousin, living at his very
jg;ates in a sort of dependence upon him ? " But she had no-
where else^ to go for one thing, and the shade of additional
aouht which had heen thrown upon Burton hy the trial, was
not of a kind to impress her mind ; nothing had heen brought
forward against him, no one had said opeijily that he was to
bli^e, and Helen was discouraged when it all ended in nothing
w she thought, and had not energy enough to uproot herself
irom the peaceful corner she had taken refuge in. Wheve
cpuid she go 1 Then she had the Haldt^nes to keep her to this
spot, which now seemed the only spot in thp world where pity
a|id friendship were to be found. Stephen, whom she con-
templated with a certain reverence in his great suffering and
pa.tience, was the better for her presence and that of I^orah,
and the kind eyes and voices that bade her welcome whenever
she crossed iheir threshold was a comfort to her. She kept
i^erself apart from the Burtons for a long time, having next to no
intercourse with them, and so she would have done still had the
matter been ip her hands. But the matter was no longer in
her hands. The children had grown up, all of them together.
They had grown into those habits which fathers and mothers
cannot cross, which insensibly affect even their own feelings
and relations. Clara Burton and Norah Drummond were
cousins still, though so great, a gulf of feeling lay between
their two houses. Both of them had been, as it were, brought
lijf with the Daltops at the Rectory^ They were aU children
tbgethe^:, all boys and girls together. Insensibly the links
multiplied, the connection grew stronger. 'When Ned Burton
in^as at Dura there was never a day ii^ his life tha,t hp 4i^ not
iGipen4) or atteinpt to spend, part of it in the Gatehouse. An4
yl^^ TSi,p, in B,pd ovit — she &X^^, M^ry Paltop ji they "^eT^, all
i^l^out the samcj a^e; at this mpn^f^i^t ih^y raQ^ed fron^ twenty

AT HIS GATES.

d4S

J very
id no-
tional
J, '"'as
rought
siras to
othing
herself
Wheie
to this
re pity
le con-
Dg and
mrah,
lenever

tekept
ttono
lad the

to, 9QVenteeti, a group of companions more intimate than any-
tJiiing but youth, and this long a^d close association could hay«
ma^e them. They were like brothers and sisters, Mrs. Dalton
said anxiously, veiling from herself the fact that some of them
had begun to feel and think as brothers and sisters do not feel
Qharlie Dalton, for instance, who was the eldest of all— K>ne-andr
twenty, instead of falling in love with Norah, who was as poor as
himself — a thing which would have been simple madness, of
course, but not so bad as what happened — ^bad seen fit to bestow
his heart, upon Clara Burton, whose father dreamed of nothine
less than a duke for her, and who had not so much heart as woul4
lie on a sixpence, the rector's wife said indignantly ; and Heaven
knows how many other complications were foreshadowing
through those family intimacies, and the brother and sister couf
dition which had been so delightful while it lasted. Mra»
Drummond and Mrs. Dalton went together on this particular
evening, watching from a distance over their respective children*
Helen's face was calm, for Norah was in no trouble; but the rec'
tor's wife had a pucker on her brow. She could see her Charlie
watching so wistfully the movements of Clara Burton through
the crowd, hanging about her, stealing to her side whenever he
could, following her everywhere with his eyes. Charlie was
esi>ecially dear to his mother, as the eldest boy of a large fam-
ily, wheu he is a good boy, so often is. She had been able to
talk to him many a dav about her domestic troubles when she
could not speak to his father. She had felt herself strengtheur
ed by his sympathy and support, that backing up which is so
good for everybody, and it broke her heart to see her boy
breaking his for that girl. What could he see in her ) the
mother thought. If it bad been Norah Drummond ! and then
she tried to talk to her friend at her side. They had come to
be very fast friends ; they had leant upon each other, by tumf ^
corners, as it were, of the burdens which each had to bear, and
Mrs. Dalton knew Mrs. Drummond could guess what the sigh
meant which she could not restrain.

" How nice Norah is looking," she said, " and how happy I
I think she has changed so much since she was a child. She
used to haye suqh a dreamy look ; but now there is no.omtr^
pfiPSf^ she goes in to everything with all her heart."

" Yes " sidd Helen ; but she did not go on talking of Nor»b|

244

AT BIS GATES.

she^understood the give and take of sympathy. '* I like Mary's
dress so much. She and Katie look so fresh, and simple, and
sweet. But they are not such novices as Norah ; you know it
is her first hall."

** Poor children, how excited it makes them ! hut dressing
them is a dreadful business," said Mrs Dalton with her anxious
look still following her Charlie among all the changing groups.
** I need not disguise it from you, dear, who know all about us.
It was sometimes hard enough before, and now what with
evening dresses I And when they come to a dance like this
they want something pretty and fresh. You will feel it by-
and-byeven with Norah. I am sure if it were not for the
cheap shops, where you can buy tarlatan for so little, and
making them up ourselves at home, I never could do it. And
vou know whatever sacrifices one makes, one cannot refuse a
little pleasure to one's children. Poor things, it is all they
are likely to have"

"At least they are getting the good of it." said Helen.
Norah's dress was the first task of this kind that had been put
upon her, and sKe had been forced to make her sacrifices to
dress the child wbo had grown a woman ; but Helen, too,
knew that she could not buy many ball dresses off her hundred
a year. And it was so strange to think such thoughts in this
lavish extravagant house, where every magnificence that could
be thought of adorned mother and daughter, and the room and
the walls. Mrs. Dalton answered to the thought before it had
been expressed.

"It is curious," she said, " there is Clara Burton, who might
dress in cloth of gold if she liked — but our girls look just as well.
What a t,hing it is to be rich ! — for the Burtons you know
are — " Here Mrs. Didton stopped abruptly, remembering that
if the Burtons were nobodies, so was also the friend ^t her side.
She herself was connected with the old Harcourts, and had a
right to speak. '^ "■^"'

*'Now, ladies, I know what you are doing," said Mr Burton,
suddenly coming up to them ; "You are saying all sorts of
sweet things to each other about your children, and privately
you are thinking that there is nobody in the room fit to be
seen except yotur own. Oh don't look so caught I I know,
))ecause I am doing the same thing myself."

a su
wou
Uke
Ai
thou|
poin
mam
kno^

AT HIS OATEa

245

!>. 111.'

Doing the same thine himself — comparing his child to mj
Norah — ^to my Mary, the ladies inwardly replied ; but no such,
answer was made aloud. *' We were saying how they all enjoy
themselves/' said Mrs. Dalton, ** that was all."

Mr. Burton laughed that little laugh of mockery which men
of vulgar minds indulge in when they talk to women, and
which is as much as to say, ** you can't take me in with your pre-
tences, I see through you." He had grown stoutef, but he did
not look so vigorous as n." o? ' He was fleshy, there was a
furtive look in his eye x hen : glanced round *<« at the
brilliant party, and all the splendour of which he was tne owner,
it was not with the complacency of old. He looked as if at
any moment something disagreeable, something to be avoided
might appear before him, and had acquired a way of stretching
out his neck as if to see who was coming behind. The thing
in the room about which he was most complacent was Clara.
She had grown up, straight, and large, and tall in stature, like
our Anglo-Saxon queens, with masses of white rosy flesh and
gold-coloured hair. The solid splendid white arm, laden with
bracelets, which leaned on her partner's shoulder, was a beauty
not possessed by any of the slight girls whose mothers were
watching her as she moved past them. Clara's arm would
have made two of Norah's. Her size and fulness and colour
dazzled everybody. She was a full-blown Rubens beauty, of
the class which has superseded the gentler, pensive, unob-
trusive heroine in these days. " I don't pretend to say any-
thing but what I think," said Mr. Burton, ** and I do feel
that tfiat is a girl to be proud of. Don't dance too much,
Clary, you have got to ride with me to-morrow." She gave
him a smile and a nod as she whirled past. The man who was
dancing with her was dark, a perfect contrast to her brilliant
beauty. " They make a capital couple," Mr. Burton said with
a suppressed laugh. " I suppose a prophet, if we had one,
would see a good many combinations coming on in an evening
Uke this. Why, by Jove, here's Ned."

And it was Ned, bringing Norah back to her mother. " I

thought you had been dancing with one of " said his father,

pointing with his thumb across his shoulder. "Have you ho
manners, boy 9 Norah, I am sure, will excuse you when she
knows you are engaged— people that are stopping in the house."

lit'' >

246

AT HIS GATES,

"Oh, of course I wUl excuse him," said N-^ah. "I Ad
libt ^aut him at all. I would rather sit quiet a little and see
everybody. And Charlie has promised to dance with me. I
suppose it was not wrong to ask Charlie, was it ? He might as
welt have me as any one, don't you think, mamma f

" If you take to inviting gentlemen, Norah, 1 :hall expect
you to ask me," said Mr. Burton, who was always jocular to
^rls. Norah looked at him with her bright observant eyes.
She always looked at him, he thought, in that way. If e was
half afraid of her, though she was so young. He had even
tried to conciliate her, but he had not succeeded. She shook
her head without making any reply, and just then something
happened which made a change in all the circumstances. It
was the approach of the man with whom Clara had been
dancing; a man with the air of a hero of romance ; bearded,
with very fine dark eyes and hair that curled high like a crests
upon his head. Norah gave a little start as he approached,
and blushed. " It is the hero," she said to herself. He looked
as if he had just walked out of a novel with every sign of his
character legibly set forth. But though it iri.y be very well
to gibe at beautiful dark eyes and handv le features, it is
difficult to remain unmoved by their influence. Norah owned
with that sudden flush of colour a certain curiosity, to say the
least of it Mr. Burton frowned, and so did his son and diingh-
ter simultaneously, as if by touching of a spring.

" 1 am afraid you don't remember me, Mrs. Drummond,"
the stranger said ; ** but t recollect you so very well that I
hope you will let me introduce myself— Cyril Bivers. It is a
long time since we met."

" Oh, I remember ! " cried impulsive Norah, and thsn was
silent, blushing more deeply than ever. To ask Chailie Dalton
to dance with her was one thing, but meeting the hero
was entirely different. It took away her breath.

And two minutes after she was dancmg with him. It was this
he had come to her mother for — not asking any one tO intro-
duce him. He was no longer a boy, but a man travelled and
^eri^nbed, who knew, or thought he knew, society and th^
world: But he had not yet dismissed from his mind that pa6t
^tod^^ah epidOd^ Whibh had beidn flx6d tind depended in his
mirmii^rjr by the trial and idl the discussion and the neWB<

You
tt

ittcri

AT filS GATES.

24i

^MerL T6 say that lie h4d contintied to think aboat the
l>ramttiond6 Would have been foolish ; but when he came back
to Dur^ to* vitiit the Burtons, they were the first people who
relcurred to hlis mind. As his host drove him past the Gate-
house on the night of his arrival, he had asked about them. And
Mr. Burton remembered this now, and did not like it. He
stood and looked after the pair as they went away ann-in-arm.
Norah did not answer as Clara did as a complete foil and coun-
ter to Mr. Bivers's dark handsomeness. It was a mistake
altogether. It was Clara who should have been with him,
who was his natural companion. Mr. Burton reflected that
nothing but kindness could have induced him to invite his
cousin's penniless girl to the ereat ball at which Clara made her
ddntt in the world as well as Norah. He felt as he stood and
looked on that it was a mistake to have done it. People so
poor ought not to be encouraged to set themselves up as equals
of the richer clashes. He said to himself that his system had
been wrong. Different classes have different duties, he felt sure.
His own was to get as much of the good things of this world, as
much luxury and honour as he could have for his money. Helen's
was to subsist on a hundred a year; and to expect of her that she
could anyhow manage to buy ball dresses, and put her child in
competi.<lon with his ! It was wrong ; there is no other word.
Mr. Burton left his neighbours and went off with a dissatisfied
countenance to another part of the room. It was his own
&ult.

" 1 should have known you anywhere," said Mr. Rivers in
the pause of the waltzing. " You were only a child when I
saw you last, but I should have known you anywhere."

" Should you 1 How very strange ! What a good memory
you must have !" s^aid Norah. ** Though, indeed, as soon as
y6u said who you were, I remembered you."

" But nobody told me who vou were," he said, " when I saw
you just now, dancing with that young fellow, the son of the
house."

" Did you see us then 1"

" Yes, and your mother sitting by that stand of fiowerd.
You are half yourself as I remember you, and half her."

" What a good memory you must have !" said Norah, very
incredulous; and then they fioated away again to the soft

w
18*1'"

248

AT HIS GATES.

dreamy music, he supporting her, guiding her through the
moving crowd as Norah had never dreamt of being guided.
She had felt she was on her own responsibility when dancing
with Ned and Charlie ; with, indeed, a little share of respon-
sibility on account of her partners too. But Mr. Rivers danced
beautifully, and Norah felt like a cloud, like a leaf lightly car-
ried by the breeze. She was carried along without ary trouble
to herself. When they had stopped, instead of feeling out of
breath, she stopped only from courtesy's sake, to let the others
go on.

" How well you dance, Mr. Rivers !" she cried. " I never
liked a waltz so much before. The boys are so different. One
never feels sure where one is going. I like it now."

** Then you must let me have as many waltzes as you can,"
he said, " and I shall like it too. Who ar3 the boys 1 You
have not any — brothers] Boys are not to be trusted for
waltzing: they are too energetic — too much determined to
have everything their own way."

" Oh, the boys 1 they are chiefly Ned and — Charlie Balton.
They are the ones I always dance with," said Norah. " And
oh, by-the-bye, I was engaged to Charlie for this dance."

" How clever of me to carry you off before Mr. Charlie
came !" said the hero. ** But it is his own fault if he was not
up in time." ,i.i;^i

" Oh, I don't know," said Norah, with a blush. " Theiac^is—
he did not ask me ; I asked him. I never was at a ball before, and
I don't know many people, and of course I wanted to dance. I
asked him to take me if he was not engaeed, so if he found
any one he liked better, he was not to bo blamed if he forgot.
Why do you laugh ? Was it a silly thin^ to do 1"

"I don't know Charlie," said Mr. Rivers ; " but I should
puncb his head with pleasure. What has he done that he
should have you asking him to dance % "

And then that came again which was not dancing, as Norah
understood it, an occasion which had always called for consider-
able exertion, but a very dream of delightful movement, like
flying, like — she could not tell what. But this time she was a
little ashamed about Charlie ; and the waltz put it out of Mr.
Rivers's mind.

" Po you think I may call to-morrow T he (W-id, when they

"01

AT HIS OATQS.

249

' :, II 'I

stopped again. ** Will your mother let me 1 There are so
many things I should like to talk over with her. You are too
young, of course, to remember anything about a certain horrid
bank."

"Ah, no, I am not too young," said Norah, and the smiles
with which ^she had been looking up at him suddenly vanished
from her face. "'

« I beg your pardon. I had forgotten that it was of more
importance to you than to any one. I want to talk to your
mother about that. Do you think I may come ? Look here ;
is this Charlie ? He is just the sort of youth whom a young
lady might ask to dance with her. And, good heavens, how
he waltzes! I don't wonder that you felt it a painful exercise.
Are Miss Burton and her guests friends V*

^'Wg are all great friends," said Norah, half displeased. And .
Clara Burton as she passed gave her an angry look. ** Why
Clara is cross," she said pathetically. " Wliat can I Lave
done 1"

Mr. Bivers lauehed. Norah did not like the laugh ; it
seemed a little like Mr. Burton's. There was a certain con-
scious superiority and sense of having found some one out in
it which she did not either like or understand.

" Yuu seem to know something I don't know," she said, with
prompt indignation. " Perhaps why Clara is cross ; but you
don't know Clara. You don't know any of us, Mr. Rivers, and
you oughtn't to look as if you had found us out. How could
you find out all about us, who have known each other from
babies, in one night ? "

" I beg your pardon," he said, with au immediate change of
tone. " It is one of the bad habits of society that nobody can
depend on another, and everybody likes to grin at his neigh-
bours. Forgive me ; I forgot I was in a purer air."

" Oh, it was not that," said Norah, a little confused. He
seemed to say things (she thought) which meant nothing, as if
there was a great deal in them. She was glad to be taken back
to her mother, and deposited under her shelter; but she was.
not permitted to rest there. Ned came and glowered at her
reproachfully, as she sat down, and other candidates for her
hand arrived so fast that the child was half intoxicated with
pleasure and flattery. What do they want me for 1" she won-

tiiii

2M)

AT RIB OATEd.

dMi Within herself. She #^ tJo ^uch ih reauest that Ned did
not get ai^other dance till the very end of the evening : and
ev^h Mr. Rivers was balked in at least one of the waltzes he
had engaged her for. He drew back with a smile, seeing it ivas
Mr. Burton himself who was exerting himself to find partners
for Norah. But Norah was all smiles ; she danced the whole
evening, comine- little by little into her partner's sway. PleaSed
to be so popular, delighted with everybody's ** kindness" to
her, and dazzled with this first opening glimpse of ''the
world."

^ ^' If this is the world, I like it," she said to her mother as
they drove home. ** It is delightful ; it is so beautiful ; it is
so Kind ! Oh, mamma, is it wrong to feel so 1 I never iitras so
happy in my life."

"No, my darling, it is not wrong," Hekti Said, kissing heiy
She was not insensible to her child s triumph.

; '

• -■ . ■'

1:. • -i,

ri.trw [y

▲T UIS GATES.

251

OHAPtER XXVI. <

.T k tanity, mv dear, Vattity. You iaxait not set your
taind npon it, ^^ MtiB. Haldane.
** Oh, but it was delightful," said Korah, '' it was won-
derful ! if you had been there yourself you would have liked
it as much as I did. Everybody looked so nice, and e\ i^body
was BO nice, Mrs. Haldane. A thine that makes 6very one
kind and pleasant and smiling must oe ^ood, don't jrou th^nk
so 1 We were all as amiable, as charming, as fa8cin(^.ting iir
ever we could be."

" And whom did you dance with t " said Miss Jahe.

" I danced with everybody. It is quite time. You 6anii(^t
think how kind the people were. When we went in firsi ,"
said Norah, with a laugh and a blush, ** I saw so many sttaU^
faces, I was afraid I should have no dancing at all ; so I whis-
pered to Charlie Dalton, ' Do take me out for the next dance !*
abd he nodded to say yes. I suppose it was dreadfully wix>ng
and ignorant ; but I did so Want to have a good dance ! "

" Well, then, that is one,** said practical Miss Jane, bd^ining
to count on her fingers.

** Oh, no ! it is not one ki all Mr. Bivers came and i^ked
iti6, tod I forgot all about Chairlie. He forgot too, I supposo ;
for I did not dance with him the whole evening. And thcin
th^re Wto Ned, and young Mr. Howard, and CapciJ i Douglas,
and Mrb. Dalton's brother, tod— I told you, everybodv; and,
to biB very gttod. Lord Merewether himself At the end.

** Lord Mei'owether ! " Misd JaUe was deeply impressed, tod
held the finger on which dhe had counted ttiis potentate fO^ ^
fall minute. " Then. Norah, my dear, you had the vety b66t
of the great bounty folks."

•* Ye&," said Norah, " it was V6ty hia^ ; only he Wte ft littlo^
stupid. And then Ned again, tod Mr. Bive^; Mr. BiV^
was Always coming ; mamma made me say I ^as engft^^. It
did i^t turn out to bo ft fib, foir sOiho ^ehtlemftn ^t^a^l HHaiA
to ask me ; btit one ftlway^ gHdV^ it in bil^B im #h^ dtUi
says a thing that is not quite true."

"Si ■:

252

AT HIS GATES.

** Ob, Norah ! " said Mrs. Haldane, ** is not that just what I
told you ) Do you think anything can be good or right for a
young girl in a Christian land that makes you say what is not
quite true ? There may be no harm in th€ dancine by itself,
though in my day we were of a different way of thinking ; but

to teU—lies "

, **Not lies, mother," said Stephen. " When Norah told Mr.
Rivers she was engaged, he understood, of course, that she did
not want to dance with him."

"Well," said Norah slowly, " T don't tnow. To tell the very,
very truth, I did want very much to dance with him, He
dances like an angel— at least, I don't know how an angel dan-
ces—Oh, please don't look so shocked, Mrs. Haldane ; I did
npt mean any harm. He is just simply delightful to dance
with. Biit mamma thought something — I don't know what
It is etiquette, you know ; a girl must not dance very often
with one man."

" And who is this Mr. Rivers 1 " said Stephen. " Is he as
delightful in other ways?"

'^*j[)oii't you rememher 1 " said Norah. '' It is so funny no-
body seems to remember but me. When we came here first,
he was here too, and mfimma and I met hin^ one day at our
own old home in London. Mr. Stephen, I am sure I have,
tpld you ; the boy, I used to call him, that was on our side % "

^* Ah, I remember now," said Stephen ; " and he seems to be
on your side still, from, what you say. But who is he, Norah,
and what is he, and why did he want to dance so often with

"As' for thai, saiclN^oi'ah, laughing, " I suppose he liked me
tQo ;. there was not any other reason. He is so handsome ! —
jiisti exactly like the hero in a novel. The moment I saw him
I said to myself, ' Here is the hero.' He is almost too hand-
sbnie : dark, with hair that curls all over his head, and the
mqs^ beautiful dark eyes. You never saw such beautiful dark
eyes I Oh, I am not speaking because I like him. I think I should
almost like him better if he were not quite no — don't you Jcnow ?
If I were writing , a novel. I should take him for the hero. I
should make, everybody fall in love with him— all the ladies,
o^d afber another. When one sees a man like that in real life,"
s^d Norah, with gravity, " it puts one on one's guard,"

( •.

AT HIS GATES.

253

"Are you on yotir guard, Norahl" said Stephen, with a
smile. The incipient fiin in his eyes was, however, softened
hy a tend&K^r alarm, a wistfUl curiosity. The child! Since
poor Drummond used to call her so, regarding her as the child
par excellence-- the type and crown of childhood — this was the
name that had seemed most appropriate to Norah. Arid it
meant so much — not only Robert's child, who had gone and
had left her to the love of his friends, but the very embodi-
ment of youth and innocence — the fresh, new life, to be made
something better of than any of the older lives had been.
Should she, too, fall just into the common snare^ — just into the
vulgar pitfalls, as everybody did ? The thought disturbed her
self-appointed guardian— her father's friend.

''Me ! " said Norah, and her colour rose, aud she laughed,
with a light in her eyes which had not been there before. It
was not the glance of rising excitement, as Stephen feared, but
onlj^ a merry glow of youthful temerity — that daring which
loves to anticipate danger. " Oh, what fun it Would be 1 But
no, Mr. Stephen ; oh, no ! that was not what I meant in the
least. I am not that sort of girl. Mr. Rivers," she added,
with a certain solemnity, " had Something to do with that bank,
you know. I don't know what he had to do with it. He is
Lord Rivers's son, and it is to talk over that that he is coming
to see mamma." '^'"'^'^ "^^^^ :"'^ ; ' \'' .^^'-''^'^ ^

" Oh, to talk over that ! " said Stephen, half amused.

"Yes, to talk it over," said Norah, with great gravity; and
then she made a sudden leap from the subject. " The Mere*
wethers are all staying at the great house-^the marchioness
herself, and Lord Merewether, and the girls ; I think they aire
very nice girls. But, oh ! Miss Jane, I must tell you one thing;
she had on her diamonds. I never saw diamonds before. They
are like light. They change, and they glimmer, and they make
little rainbows. I never saw anything so beautiful ! They are
like a quantity of dewdrops when the sun is shining— only you
never could get dewdrops to keep still in one place.'*'

" And I suppose they are worth a mint of money," said Miss
Jane, with a sigh of admiration. " I have never seen them but
in the shops, Norah ; but I don't think I should like to wear
as much as would keep half-a-dozen poor families round my
neck."

.!*''■

SI4

AT HIS ^ATll^S.

Ij^QXBh, pAUaad doubtfully, uot feeling equal to this question.

" I suppose they belong to the fwily, m)4 ^^^ 4ive not i|eli
them, an j thei|» perhaps— Would God have tnajde 4j(amond9 jf
]^e did not mean people to wear them ?" she askedr^ith hesi-
tiiition. " Oh, do you know, I think I should like so much to
we^ them, if they were mine I "

" Ah, my dear," said old Mrs. Haldane, " see how vanity
comes into the mind. Yesterday you had never thought of
diamonds ; npw you would like — ^you know you would like —
to have them; and from that to trying to get theiU is but a
siiep, l^orah, but a step— if you don't mind."

** I could only try to get them by stealing tl^em," said Korah ;
"and, after all, I don't care so much as tba)>. i$esides, girls
don't wear diamonds. But 111 tell you what I should like. T
should like to take those lovely things of the mf^clUonera's,
and put ihem upon mamma." . , .j;^ , rt j w. .1 |

« There, I toW you ! " said the old lady. " IToraJi,, doa't^
to these places any more. You have begun to covet them m
your heart."

"Oh, how beautiful mamma would look in them!" cried
Norah. " Mr. Stephen, is it vanity to admire one's mother ?
I suppose it must be really ; for if there is anything in the
world that belongs to you, of course it is your mother. ^ think
mamma is beautiful : even in her black silk, made square, and
not so fresh as it once was, she was the most beautiful in the
room — I don't mean pretty, like us girls. And if I could have
put her into black velvet instead, with lovely lace like Mrs.
Burton's, and the marchioness's diamonds — oh ! " cried Norah,
expanding in her proud imagination, " she would have been
like a queen 1 "

" Oh, Norah, Norah ! " cried Mrs. Haldane, shaking her
head.

" And so she would," said Stephen. " Norah is quite ri^ht."

He spoke low, and there was a melancholy tone in his voice ;
he was thinking sadly how she had been buried like himself
ii^ the middle of her d^iys — shut out from aU thpse triumphs
i^pd glorias which are pleasant to a woman. A less\hum&Q-
hearted man in Stephen Haldape's position would no doubt
have pronounced it hAppy for Helen that she was thuisi preserved
^m vanity and vainglory. Bat he had learned to teel for aU

^t HIS GATES.

III'

l^iit npt wh*t he w?if3 suppo^^d to think. Mm ^i^pe gayjp a
^liqce of h^r eye at him frpm her sewing, half-indignapt, n|Jf-
sprrpwful. ShQ hiul f^^ncied something of the sort often, she
8^<d to herselC Stephen, poor Stephen ! who could never have
{t wife, pr any other love different fro^i her own. She thought
thftt the other woman whom she had admitted in all the coi^-
dence of friendship had stolen from him her brother'sheart

*' Well, and if she had/' said Miss Jane, with some shaTpness,
" what good wpuld that have done her 1 I never heard that to
be like a queen made anybody the happier yet.**

" I was not thinking of what made her happier," sjiid
Norah, coming behind Miss Jane's chair, and stetding an axvfi
round her neck, "but of what would make me happier.
Shouldn't you like to have everything that was nice for Mrs.
Haldane and Mr. Stephen, even if they didn't want it 1 Qh, I
know you would ! and so should 1."

" iTou coipcing child I ycu would m^^ce one swear black was
white 1 What has thiat to do with lace and diamonds V said
"i/^m Jane ; but she was vanquished, and had no more to say.

"'Mary and Katie were in white tarletane," said KoT^h.
" They looked so pretty ! Clara looked very much the same.
You can't have much better than fresh white tarletane, you
know; pnly she had the mpst bfi^autiful silk underneath, and
heaps of ornaments. She isso bigshec^n stand a greatdeal of de-
coration ; but it would npt have done for any of us little things.
How anxipus I used to- bp to grow big ! " Norah went on.
"Now, on the whole, I think it is best not; one does not take
up so much room ; one does not require so much stuff for a
dress ; one can do without a ^reat many things. If I h(^l
been as big as Clar^ now, for instance, I never could have
done with those little bits of bracelets and mamma's one string
of pearls."

**So you seegopd ppmes froi^ eyil," said Stephen, with a
smile. '[",'"- j

" Oh, Stephen, dpn*t ti^ll; 8Q tp eqcpurage the child I With
your upbringing, Nor^i^, ai^d alj, the advantages you have ha^
tp ^ve upi your mi^4 \^ WO^i follies ! If I ^pre yo^r ppc^

e ii lajring nolt^Qg, wwn^, mo^fiVr w^^, ^ fpi^

256

AT ms GATES.

<>;r

" It is a great gain to Norah, you know, that she is little, and
can get a pretty dress out of twelve yards of stuff, when Clara
Burton takes twenty. That is thrift, and not vanity. I am
very glad you are little, Norah ; hig women are always in the
way. That Clara Burton, for instance — if she were in a smal!
house she would fill it all up ; there would not he room fot an}
one else. What does Mr. Rivers see in her, I wonder 1 Sh(
is not half so nice as some people I know."

" Mr. Rivers 1 " said Norah.

** Yes, my dear. They say it is almost a settled thing be-
tween the two families. She will have quantities of money,
and he will be Lord Rivers when his father dies. They say
that is why he is here."

It did not matter anything to Norah. She did not care ;
why should she 1 Her very admiration of him had been linked
with a gibe. He was too handsome ; he was a man out of 4
book. Nevertheless, she looked at Miss Janie for a moment
achast. " The boy that was on our side !" she said to herself.

" Who are thept and what do they know about it ? " said
Stephen. "People don't make such arrangements nowadays.
if this were intended, you may be sure nothing at ail would be
said."

Stephen made this little speech out of a real regard for
Norah's cheerfulness, wliicli he thought was affected, and part-
ly to rouse her to self defence.

■ ; ** But it would be quite nice," said Norah, recovering her
diismay. " Oh, how funny it would be to think of one of us
being married ! It should be Clara the first ; she is the young-
est^ but she is the biggest, and she was always the one who
would be first, you know. She is very, very handsome, Miss
Jane. Y"ou never were fond of Clara ; that is why you don't
see it. It would be the very thing !" cried Norah, clapping her
hands. " She is not one of the girls that would go and make
him vain, falling in love with him. She will keep him in his
right place ; she will not let him be the hero in the novel. The
onlv thing is, I am a little disappointed — though it is very
foolish and stupid ; for of course all that is over long ^o, and
Clara is like my sister ; and if Mr. Burton was wicked, I hope
he has repented. But still, you know, I have always thought
of Mr. Rivers as one that was on our side/*

AT HIS GATES.

267

** Hush child ! " cried Mi«9 Jane. ** Don't be the one to
keep up old quarrels. That is all over now, and we have no
sides."

" So I suppose/' saidNorah; "but I feel a little as if he
were a deserter. I wonder if Clara likes him. I wonder if

It is all so very funny 1 One ox us girls ! But I must

go now to mamma. Mr. Stephen, I will come back in the
evening, and tell you what mamma thinks, and if Mr. Bivers
had anything to tell her — ^that is, if he comes to-day."

And Norah ran away unceremoniously, without leave-tak-
ing. She was the child of both the households. Sometimes
she went and came a dozen times in a day, carrying always a
little stream of youth and life, and freshness into the stagnant
places. Stephen laid down his book with a smile at the sight
of her ; he took it up now with a little sigh. He had sat there
all these six years, a motionless, solemn figure, swept aside
from the life of man, and Norah's comings and goings had
been as sweet to him as if she had been his own child. Now
he feared that a new chapter of life was opening, and it moved
him vaguely, with an expectation that was mingled with pain ;
for any change must bring pain to him. To others there
would be alternations- threads twisted of dark and, bright, of
good and evil; but to him in his chair by the window, no
change, he felt, could bring anything but harm.

"Oh, mamma," said Norah, ruslung into the drawing room
at the other side of the house, " fancy what I have just heard !
They say it is all but settled that Clara is to marry Mr. Rivers.
They say that is why he is here."

" It is very likely, dear," said Helen. " I thought some-
thing jf that kind must be intended from what I saw last
night."

" What did you see, mamma % How odd I should never
have thought of it ! I feel a little disappointed," said Norah ;
" because, you know, I always made up my mind that he was
on our side."

" We don't want him on our side," said Mrs. Drummond,
with a decision which surprised her daughter. " And, Norah,
I am glad you havo spoken to me. Be sure you don't forget
this when yoa meet Mr Rivers ; he is very agreeable, and he
seems very friendly ; but you must take care never to say any-
Q

'iii'^H

258

1^ HIS GAT^S.

thing, or to let hiro say anything, that you trould not wish
Clara to hear."

Norah paused, and looked at her mother with considerable
bewilderment. " How veiy strange of you to say this, mam-
ma! How very disagreeable — never to say anything, nor let
him say anything ! But I should hate to have Clara, or any
one, listening to all I say. I will not talk to him at alL I
will close my lips up tight, and never say a word. I Suppose
that will be best."

"Not to-day, however," said Mrs. Drummond; "fori see
him coming, Norah. You must be as you always are — neither
opening your mouth too much, nor closing it up too tight."

"I hate the juste milieu" said naughty Norah; but at that
moment the door-bell rang, and, before she could speak again,
Mr. Rivers was shown in, looking more like the hero of a novel
than ever. He was tall, slender, well-proportioned. Hej
had those curls about his temple§ which go to a girl's heart.
He had the most ingratiating nose, the beauti^Uest eyes.
" For one thing," said Norah to herself savagely, " Clara will
not go and fall in love with him and make him vain ! " Clara
had too great an opinion of herself ; she w as not likely to be
any man's worshipper. There was consolation in that.

" It is a long time since we met," Mr. Rivers said ; " but
you must pardon me for thrusting myself upon you all at once,
Mrs. Drummond. I have never forgotten what passed when
I saw you last. I doubt whether I ought to speak of it after
all these years."

" Perhaps it is better not," said Helen.

" Perhaps ; but I should like to say one thing — just one
thing. I do not know if you thought my father to blame. He
is a quiet man ; he never makes any public appearance ; he was
a sufferer only. He had nothing to do with the bank. He
was one of those who were wronged, not of those who did the
wrong."

"I have always known that," said Mrs. Drummond; and then
there was a pause. (" He is on our side still," Norah thought
to herself; but her mother changed the subject abruptly^
" The children have all grown up since you Were here. Time
has made more change upon them than it h&s upon yimj*^

" Do you think so \ " said the hero. " I am uot sure* llm«

!'''■

AT HIS QATES.

259

has made a great deal of difference in me. I am not half so
sure of the satisfactoriness of life and the good qualities of the
world as I used to be. I suppose it is a sign that age is com-
ing on : whereas these young people, these fairy princes and
princesses, who were babies when I was here "

At this point Norah was seized with one of those irrestrain-
able, seductive laughs which lead the spirit astray. " Oh, I
beg your pardon," she said ; " but I was puzzled to think how
poor, dear Ned could be a fairy prince ! He is such a dear
fellow, and I am so fond of him; but Prince Charmant, mamma !"

" If he is a dear fellow, and you are fond of him, I should
think it did not matter much whether he looked like Prince
Charmant or not," said Mr. Rivers ; and then he added, with a
smile — " There are other kinds of princes besides Charmant.
Riquet, with the tuft, for instance ; and he with the long
nose "

Now Ned, poor fellow, had a long nose. He had not grown
up handsome, and Norah was strongly conscious of the fact.
She felt that she had been the first to laugh at him, and yet she
hated this stranger for following her example. She grew very
red, and drew herself up with the air of an offended queen.

" They all got charmani at the last," she said stiffly ; " that
is better than beginning by being charmant, and turning out
very disagreeable in the end."

Mrs. Drummond gave her daughter a warning glance. " It
was a pretty party last night," she said ; " I hope you liked it.
We thought it very grand ; we have so little gaiety here."

" Was it gaiety 1" said the young man. "I suppose it was ;
but a ball is always rather a solemn affair to me, especially when
you are staying in the house. The horror that comes over you
lest you have danced with some one you oiight not to have danced
with, or left some one whom you ought. I broke away for a
little while last night when I saw you, and went in for simple
pleasure — but duty always drags one back at the end."

" Duty at a ball ! Why it is all pleasure," cried Norah. " It
may be foolish and frivolous, or it may even be — ^wrong ; but I
never was so happy in my life."

Then the hero of romance turned upon her, and smiled^ ^* You
told me it w^ your first ball/' he said ; " and that, I suppose,
would naturally make it look like Paradise^'*

'260

Ai* HIS GATES.

<' It was very nice,'' said Norah. His smile and his look drove
her back into the shelter of commonplace. Somehow when he
looked at her, her energy seemed to turn into exaggeration,
and her natural fervour into pretence. Then she plunged into
the heart of a new subject with all a child's temerity. ** Don't
you think Clara is very handsome 1" she said.

Mr. Rivers did not shrink from a reply. ** She is very
handsome— if she knew how to dress."

Dress ! why, she had the loveliest dress ^" ,

It was all white and pufly — like yours," he said. **iJ*ancy
that girl having no more perception than to dress herself like
you ! What nas she to do with shadows, and clouds, and
m^stenr ? She should be in heavy silks or satins, like the Juno
she is.'

Norah did not quite make out what this meant ; whether it
was the highest admiration or a covert sneer. She took it fob
granted it must be the former. ** Yes ; I know she is like a
Juno." she said, somewhat doubtfully ; adding, with a slightly
faltering tone, ** and she is very nice too."

" She is your cousin, Norah," said Mrs. Drummond quietly ;
and then the child grew redder than ever, and felt herself put
on her defence.

"I did not mean to gossip, mamma. I don't know what
Mr. Bivers likes to talk about. When anyone is quite a
stranger, how can you tell, unless you are very, very clever,
what to talk about ) And then I have been with Mr. Stephen,
telling them all about the ball. It is in my head. I can't think
of anything else. How pretty the Meren^ether girls are ! Oh,
I beg your pardon. I did not mean to go back to the same
^ aubject. But I had to tell them everything^— what people were
there, and whom I danced with, and ^"

** Mr. Stephen always encourages your chatter," said Helen,
with a smile.

'* What a sensible man Mr. Stephen must be ! May I know
"who he is ? " said young Rivers ; and thus a new topic presented
itself. Stephen Haldane's name and his story brought up an
unintentional reference to the misfortunes which link^ the two
households together, and which had given Cyril Rivers a cer-
tain hold upon them. When this chance was afforded him, he
told them, very simply and shortly, what sacrifices his father

AT BIS GATES.

261

had made ; how he had mortgaged some of his property, and
sold some, and was living very quietly now, in retirement, till
his children were all educated. '* I am sent out into the world
to see how it looks after the waters have abated," he said
laughing. " I have got to find out how the land lies, and if
there is any green showing above the flood ; but I don't Vtibw
whether I am most likely to turn out the raven or the dove."

" Oh, I should like to find an olive leaf for you to fly back
with !" said Norah, obeying her first impulse, in her foolish
way. Mrs. Drummond lo<3ced at him gravely, without any of
her daughter's enthusiasm.

" Mr. Rivers must find the olive leaf in some warmer cor-
ner," she said. " They don't grow in our garden, Norah. We
have none to give."

" That is tnie," said the heedless girl ; " but, if the olive
would do, Mr. Rivers, there is one in the conservatory at the
great house — a poor, little, wee, stunted thing ; but there is
one there, I know."

Did she mean it ) or was it mere innocence, heedlessness %
It was not wonderful if Cyril Rivers was puzzled, for even Mrs.
Drummond could not make quite sure.

262

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XXVII.

,T was natural that there should be nothing talked about
that morning throughout Dura except the ball. All the
young people were Tate of getting up, and they were all
full of the one subject — how this one a^d ci ^.t one looked ; how
Charlie haunted Clara all the evening ; how young Mr. Nicholas
the curate, whom decorum kept from waltzing, stood mourn-
fully, and gazed at Mary Dalton through all the round dances.
Things were getting very serious between Mary and Mr. Nicho-
las ; though waltzing was such a temptation to her, poor child,
and though she had plenty of partners, she sat still half the'
evening out of pity for the cui-ate's wistful eyes ; and yet he
had been ungrateful all the same, and reproachful on the way
home. Katie Dalton, to her own great comfort, was still quite
loverless and hampered by nobody's looks. " I would not put
up with it," she said to her sister ; ** because a man chooses to
make himself disagreeable, can you not be allowed to enjoy your-
self t It is not so often we have a dance. I should let him
know very plainly, if it were me."

" Oh, Katie dear," said her sister, " you don't know what
you would do if it were you."

" Well, then, I am very glad it isn't me. I hate parsons ! "
cried Katie, This was but a specimen of the commotion made
by the ball. .The sudden incursion of quantities of new people
into the limited little society in which everybody had appro-
priated a companion to his or herself was at the first outset as
disagreeable as it was bewildering. The Dura boys and girls
had each a sore point somewhere. They had each some
reproaches to make, if not audibly, yet in their hearts. Norah
and Katie, who were quite fancy-free, were the only ones who
had received no wound. At the moment when Mr. I^ivers sat
in the d^-awing-room at the Gatehouse, Ned and Clara Burton
were walking down the avenue together, discussing the same
subject. They were both of them somewhat sulky ; and both
with the same person. It was Norah who had aflfronted both

AT HIS GATES.

263

the brother and sifter ; and to Clara, at least the affront was
doubly bitter, froQi her consciousness of the fact that, but for
the kindness, nay, charity, of the Burtons, Norah never cou|d
have Qome into such a scene of splendour at all. Clara was her
father's child, and this was a thing which she never forgot.

" I have never b^en so fond of Norah Drummond as the rest
of you were," she said. "I think she is a heartless little thing.
I am syre wl^at she and her n^other want is to be revenged on
us because we are so much better o£ I am sure papa thinks
so. It is the shabbiest, the most wretched thing in the world,
to hate people because they are better off."

"Trust to you girls for imputing bad motives," said Ned. He
was very sulky, and rather unhappy, and consequently ready
to quarrel with his best friend. In his heart he had no such
bad opinion of " girls ;" but at this moment he felt that nothing
was too disagreeable to be said.

''We girls know better what we are about a great deal than
you do," said Clara. " We see through things. Now that yo\i
begin to have your eyes opened about Norah Drummond, I mAy
speak. She is a dreadful little flirt. I have seen itl^efore,
though you never did. Why, I have seen her even with Mr.
Nicholas ; and she asked Charlie Dalton to dance with her last
night — asked him 1 Would any girl do' that who had a fespect
for herself, or cared for what people think 1 "

" Did Charlie tell you 1 " said Ned with deeper wrath and
wretchedness still. " She never asked me," he said to himself;
though he would have been ready to dance himself half dead in
her service had she but taken the trouble to ask.

*' I heard her," said Clara ; " and then^ as soon as something
better came, she forgot all about Charlie. She made Cyril
Rivers dance with her, claiming acquaintance, because she met
him once when we were all little. Ned, I would never think
of that girl more, if I were you. In the first place, you know
it could never come to anything. Papa would not allow it — a
girl without a penny, without a position even, and all that
dreadful story about her father !"

" The less we say of that dreadful story the better," said
Ned.

" Why ^ We have nothing to do with it — except that papa
has been so very kind. I don't think it is wise t9 have poor

V rl

264

AT HIS GATES.

relations near," said Clara. ** You are obliged to take some
notice of them ; and they always hate you, and try to come in
your way. I know mamma was quite wild to see you, the very
first thin^ — before you had danced with Lady Florizel, or any
one — takmg Norah out."

** Mamma is too sensible to think anirthine about it," said
Ned.

*' You may suppose so, but I know to the contrary. Mamma
was very anxious you should be attentive to Lady Florizel.
We are rich, but we have not any connections to speak of;
only rich people, like poor grandpapa. I don't mean to say I
am not very fond of grandpapa ; but the exhibition he always
makes of himself at those meetings and things, and the way he
throws his money away — money that he ought to be saving up
for us. Papa says so, Ned ! Why should you look so fierce
atmel"

" Because it is odious to hear you," said Ned. " You have
nq right to repeat what papa says — if papa does say such
things. I hope my grandfather will do exactly what he likes
with his money. I am sure he has the best right."

" Oh, that is all very well," said Clara. " / never had col-
lege d^bts to be paid. It suits you to be so independent, but
it is chiefly you that the rest of us are thinking of. You know
we have no connections, Ned. Grandpapa and his Dissenters
are enough to make one ill. If he had only been philanthropic,
one would not have minded so much ; but fancy having, every
month or two, Mr. Truston from the chapel to dinner ! So
you are bound to make a high marriage when you marry."

" I wish, Clara, you would talk of things you understand. I
marry — is it likely % " said Ned.

" Very likely — if you ask Lady Florizel. Papa would not
ask you to go into the business, or anything. Oh, I know !
He does not say much about his plans, but he cannot hide a
great deal from me. But you .spoil it all, Ned," said Clara
severely. "You put ipverjrthing wrong, and make your own
people your enemies. Instead of seeing how nice and how
sweet and how charming the right young lady is, you go and
throw yourself away on Norah Drummond — who leaves you in
the lurch the moment she sees some one else better worth her
pains."

AT HIS GATES.

265

** And who might that be 1 " asked Ned. He tried to laugh,
poor fellow, but his laugh and his voice were both unsteady.
There was truth in it all; that was what made him so tremu*
lous with anger and suppressed passion.

** As if you could not see for yourself," said Clara, herself
flushing with indignation. " Why, Cynl Rivers, of course.
No doubt they had decided he was the best man to pitch upon.
Lord Merewether was too grand ; they could not venture upon
him — and the marchioness was there to take care of her son.
But poor Cyril had nobody to take care of him. I saw Mrs.
Drummond look at him in her languid way. She has some
magnetism about her, that woman. I have seen her look at
people before, and gradually something drew them that they
had to go and talk to her. That was how it was last night.
Of course, Norah thought no more of you. She had bigger
game. She knew very well, if things changed, and Cyril
Bivers escaped from her, that, so far as you were concerned,
she had only to hold out a finger,"

" You don't seem to make very much of me," said Ned with
an angry blush.

** No, I should not make much of — any boy," said Clara
calmly. ** What could you do t You would fall into the net
directly. You are such a simpleton, such a baby, that, of
course, Norah would not need even to take any trouble. If
she only held up her finger— •*'

" That is what you mean to do to Charlie, I suppose 9 " said
Ned, with concentrated brotherly malice ; and then it was
Clara's turn to flush crimson, not so much with shame as with
anger. Her complexion was so beautiful, her white so white,
and her red so rosy, that the deeper colour which flushed all
over her face in a moment seemed to dye the wavy, downy,
velvety surface. Her blue eyes flashed out, deepening in colour
like the sea under the wind.

** What does it matter to you what I mean to do ) " she cried,
and turned her back upon him in her wrath, and went back
again up the avenue without a word of warning. She was like
a Juno, as Mr. Bivers had said. She was the youngect of the
whole band ; but yet the great scale on which she was formed,
her imperious manner and looks, gave her a certain command
among tliem. The others were pretty girls ; but Clara was

\ •

266

>f HIS GATES.

splendid, and a woman. She had to be judged on a different
standard. Poor Ned'r heart was verj'^ sore ; he was very angry,
and wounded, and unhappy ; and yet he recognized the differ-
ence as he stood and looked after his sister. It was natural
that she should make up her mind to marry whosoever pleased
her — and break a heart as she would caso away a flower. There
was nothing out of character in the superior tone she had taken
with her elder brother. On the contrary, it was natural to
her j and as for Norah, poor little Norah, what would befall
her should she come in the way of this queen 1 Ned went up-
on his own way down the village ivith a hankering in his heart
which all Clara's worldly wisdom and all his wounded pride
could not quite subdue. Norah had been unkind to him. She
had danced with him but twice all that long evening. She had
danced with everybody but him. He had seen her — was it a
dozen times') — with Rivers — confound him! And then he
wondered whether there was any trul^n in Clara's theory about
Rivers. Had Mrs. Drummond herself fallen into that way of
match-making which was natural to mothers ? He breathed a
little more freely when he presumed that it must be she, and
she only, who wwi to blame, not Norah. He strolled on with
his hands in his pockets, thinking if, perhaps, he could meet
her, or see her at a window, or persuade Katie Dal ton to fetch
her ; there were always a hundred chances of an accidental
meeting in Dura. But he could not with his own sore heart
and wounded temper go to the Gatehouse.
^i Just as Ned reached the lodge going out, ^Ir. Rivers entered
the gates coming back. He had a condescending, friendly way
of accosting Ned which the young fellow could not bear.

" Ah, going into the village 1 he said. " I am glad to be
able to assure you that nobody has suffered from last night."

" I didn't suppose they had. I am going to the post," said
Ned, surly as a young bear.

" Don't let me detain you, in that case. The post is too im-
portant to wait for anything," Rivers said, stepping a^de.

Ned looked at him, and would have liked to knock him
down. He thought what an effeminate puppy the fellow was,
what a curled darling — the sort of thing that girls admire and
think very fine, and all men despise. In short, the feelings
with which a washed-out young woman contemplates the crea-

AT HIS GATES.

267

ture who is recognized as " a gentleman's beauty " were a trifle
to those which governed Ned. Such feelings, it would appear,
must be natural. Ned despised the man for being handsome,
and the women for thinking him so, with a virulence which no
neglected maiden ever surpassed.

"Do you want me, Burton ?" Mr. Rivers said pleasantly, see-
ing that the other did not pass on.

" Oh, good heavens, no I not the least in the world," cried
boorish Ned, and went on without another word.

" Country lout !" the hero said quietly, with a smile to him-
self. If he could but have heard the comments upon him which
were passing through the mind of Ned !

Clara, for her part, went home with her mind full of angry
thoughts. She had no personal feeling about Cyril Rivers. If
she liked any one it was poor Charlie, who was her slave. But
Clara knew with precocious worldly wisdom that that would
never come to anything. It might be all very well for the mo-
ment. It was pleasant enough to have him hanging about,
watching her every look, attentive to her lightest word. But
it^never could come to anything. The highest prosperity which
the future could bring to Charlie would be advancement in the
public office where he was now a junior clerk. And that waa
no lot for her to share : she, Mr. Burton's daughter, might,
(her father said) pick and choose among the most eligible men
in England. Mt*. Burton was in the habit of speaking in this
unQ;uarded way. Clara was his favourite in the family, his
chv. en companion, his almost confidante. He was proud of
her beauty and " style," and fond of thinking that, in mind at
least, she resembled himself. It was he who had settled that
Cyril Ri" ers should be invited to Dura, and should, as a natural
consequence, offer all that remained to the Riverses to Clara.
The idea of this alliance pleased his mind, though the Riverses
were not so rich as they used to be. "They are still very well
off, and the title must be taken into consideration," he had said
to his wife. And when Clara returned home she found her
parents sittir g together in the library, which was not very
common, and discussing their children's prospects, which was
less common still. It was October, and thers was a fire over
which Mrs. Burton was sitting. She was a chilly woman at all
times. She had not blood enough, nor life enough physically.

268

AT HtS GATKSJ.

to keep her warni) and she had been up late, and was tired and
not disposed to be on her best company behaviour in the big
drawing-room on the chance that the Marchioness might come
down stairs. Mrs. Burton was not quite so placid as she once
had been. As her children had grown up there had been com-
plications to encounter more trying to the temper than the
naughtiness of their childhood ; and it sometimes happened
that all the advantage to be gained from a miccessien of fine
visitbrs would be neutralised, or partly r*eutralised, by the re-
luctance of the mistress of the house to devote her personal at-
tention ti them. Or so, at least, Mr. Bitrton thought. His
wife, on the other hand, was of opinion that it was best to leave
the visitors sometimes to themselves ; and this was what she
had done to-day. She had established herself over the library
fire with a book after luncheon, leaving the Marchioness and
the young ladies to drive or to repose as they pleased. And
the piece of self it ill had produced her a reprimand, as forcibly
as Mr. Burton dared to deliver, when he came in and found her
there.

" You are throwing away our chances, Clara," he said. * ' You
are setting the worst evample to the children. If the Marchfo-
ness had not been resting in her own rooms "

" The Marchioness is very well, Mr. Burton," said his wife.
" You may be sure I know what I am doing so far as she is
concerned. She does not want me to follo^r her about and
make a fuss, as some people do."

i«< " I have told you," said Mr. Burton, "that I wished the ut-
most civility to be shown to people of her rank in my house.
^Vhy, Glara, what can you be thinking of? With all the
ambitious ideas you have in your head for Ned. "

" My ambition is very easy satisfied," she said, " if you
will let the boy follow his own inclinations. He has no turn for
business ; all that he would do in business would be to lose
what you have made."

" If he makes a good match — if he marries into the Mere-
wether family — I should not say another word about business,"
said Mr. Burton.^ Looking at him in daylight, it was still
more easy to perceive the change that had come over him.
His clothes, those well-made, light-coloured clothes which had
once been a model of everything that clothes should be, h^^

AT HIS GATES.

269

begun to look almost shabby, though they were in themselves
as glossy and as spotless as ever. Anxiety was written in the
lines about his eyes. " Should the children do well, Clara —
should they do as we wish them — I should be tempted myself
to get out of the business, when I have an opportunity/' he
said. "It is wearing work, especially when one has no-
body to help, nobody to sympathize ;" and the man who had
been always the incarnation of prosperity, needing no props of
external support, puffed out from his bosom a real sigh.

Mrs. Burton took no notice ; she was perfectly calm and un-
moved, either unaware that her husband had displayed any-
thing like emotion, or indifferent to it.

" 1 cannot say that I have ever been fond of these match-
making Hcheim^^" »he «aid, " and Ned is only a boy ; but there
is one thing t^tit^. must be taken into consideration, whatever
you may do in thm matter; that is Norah Drummond. If she
thinks differently, you may as well give up the conflict."

" Norah Drummond ' " said Mr. Burton, grinding his teeth.
" By Jove ! they talk aJ>out a man's pleasant sins being against
him ; but there is nothing so bad in that way as his unpleasant
virtues, I can tell you. If all tfee annoyance I have had through
these two women could be reckoned up "

" T do not know what annoyance you may hp'»\^ had your-
self," said Mrs. Burton in her cold judicial way. I hr.ve seen
nothing to complain of. But now I confess lo hegma to be un-
pleasant. She has more influence over Ned th?»n any of us.
He danced with her last night before any «nc else. He ifi
always there, or meeting her at other placets, I have observed
it tor some time. But you have done nothing tc) stop it, Mr.
Burton. Sometimes I have thought you approved, from the
way you have allowed things to go on."

" I approve !" he cried, with something like horror.

" How was I to know? I do not say it is of very mucli im-
portance. Ned, of course, will follow his own taste, not ou^a."

"But, by Jove, he shan't !" cried Mr. Burton. "By Jove, he
shall take himself out of this, and make his own way, if 1 hear
any more nonsense. What ! after all I have done to set them
up in the world — after all I have gone through!"
> He was affected, whatever was the cause. There was some
thing like agitation about him. He was changed from the con-

270

AT HIS GATES.

fident man of formor times, iiis wife looked at him in surprise,
and came to this conclusion quite suddenly. She had not no-
ticed it when he was among other people, playing his part of
host with an offensive hospitality which often annoyed her,
and which the Marchioness, for example, scarcely hesitated to
show her contempt of. But now, when there was no one pres-
ent, when he was free to look as he pleased, Mrs. Burton found
out all at once that her husband was changed. Was it merely
that he was older, tired with last night's dissipation, not so
able to defy the late hours, and supper and champagne, as he
had once done 'i She was not a woman to rest in so superficial
a view of affairs ; but for the moment these were the questions
she asked herself, as she looked at him with calm yet undenia-
ble surprise.

" You seem to be excited, Mr. Burton," said she. \

" Excited !" he cried ; " and good reason, too ; with you sit-
ting there as cold as a little fish, never thinking of the interests
of your family, talking of Ned thwarting me as if it was
nothing! If I were excited it would be little wonder, I
think.'^

" I have no desire that Ned should thwart you," she said;
" on the contrary, it is my own wish. He will never make a
good man of business. A marriage with one of the Mereweth-
ers, or a girl in that position, with your money, Mr Burton,
would be the best thing for him. He might get into Parli-
ment, and do all that I once hoped for you; but what I hoped
is neither here nor there."

Mrs. Burton was only human, though she was so philosophi-
cal ; and this was a stroke in her own defence.

" See that Ned does it, then," he said. " Perhaps it was
what I hoped too ; but business has swallowed me up, instead
of leaving me more free. You ought to make it your duty to
see thai Ned does as we both wish. What is there to stand in
the way?"

"Not much," said Mrs. Burton, shrugging her shoulders.
"Norah Drummond — not a very large person— thai is all."

" Confound Norah Drummond ! A man is always a fool
when he thinks of other people. I am finding that out too late.
But you may compose yourself about Ned," added the father
with irony. '^ That little thing has other fish to fry. She is

mlders.
all."
fool
00 late,
father
Slieis

AT FT^* OATES.

271

Mr. Burton 1 " asked his

am tired of working and
a son-in-law and daugh-
above all, a son-in-law.

poking herself into Clara tjr, confound her! That senti
mental ass, Rivers, who is i atit to touch my child's hand—

" I heard of that too," said Mrs. Burton, in a low voice.

" I should think you did hear of it ; but you never interfered,
so far as T could see. He would have danced with her all
night, if I had not taken it into my own hands. The ass ! a
poor little chit like that, when he might have had Clary ! But^
however, understand me, Clara, this is a woman's business. I
want these children settled and put out in life. Ned may be
rather young, but many a young fellow in his position is mar-
ried at one-and twenty. And by Jove, I can't go on bearing
this infernal strain ! I should give it up if it was not for
them.

" Is there anything going wrong
wife.

" What should be going wrong? I
never getting any sympathy. I want
ter-in-law who will do us credit — but.
And I don't see any obstacle in the way which you cannot over-
come, if you choose."

"I wonder." said Mrs. Burton, " can I overcome Norah
Drummond? — and her mother ? They are the obstacles in the
way."

"Thanks to my confounded good-heartedness," said her hus-
band.

And it was at Lliis moment Clara came in and joined their
deliberations. Little more, however was said, and she was
sent away to seek out Lady Florizel, and do her duty to the
young visitors as the daughter of the house should. Mr. Bur-
ton went off himself to see if the Marchioness had made herself
visible, and do his best to overwhelm her with fussy hospital-
ity. But Mrs. Burton sat still at the library fire and warmed
her coM little feet, and set her mind to work out the problem.
It was like a game of chess, with two skilfully-arrayed, scien-
tific lines of attack all brought to nothing by a cunning little
knight, of double movement-power, in the centre of the board.
Either of the schemes on which her husband had set his heart,
or both — and one of them was deai to herself also if she would
have acknowledged it — might be brought to a satisfactory is-
gue^ if this little Norah, this penniless child, this poor Uttle

mM-

272

AT HIS GATES.

waif who had grown up at their gates, could be put out of the
way. Was the part of Nemesis, so unlike her childish appear-
ance and character, reserved for Norah 1 or was the mother us-
ing her child as the instrument of a deep, and patient, and long-
prepared vengeance 1 It was the latter view of the question
which was most congenial to Mrs. Burton's mind ; but whether
it was thnt or fate, the greatest combinations which the fainily
at the great house had yet ventured on, the things most con-
cerning their comfort and happiness, were suddenly stopped
short by thi? little figure. It was Norah Drummond, only No-
rah, who was the lion in the way.

AT niS GATES.

273

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ED BURTON went to the post, as he had said. He
had to pass the Gatehouse on his way ; and his busi-
ness was not of so important a description that he
should make any haste about it or tire himself with walking.
He loitered along, looking into the windows, sOre at heart and
wistful. There was no one, to be sure at Mrs. Dnimmond's
end of the Gatehouse. He tried to get a glimpse at the inte-
rior through the Venetian blinds which veiled the lower panes ;
but they were turned the wrong way, and he could not see any-
thing. He had made up his mind he should be sure to see
Norah, for no particular reason except that he wanted so much
to see her. But no Norah was visible. At the other end of
the house, however, Stephen Haldane's window was open as us-
ual, and he himself sat within, looking almost eagerly for that
interview with the outside world which his open window per-
mitted. The summer was over, with all its delights, and soon
the window would have to be closed, and Stephen's chair re-
moved to winter quarters. What a deprivation this was to
him no one knew; — but just at the fall of the year, when the
transparent lime-leaves had turned into yellow silk instead of
green, and littered the flags under th« window, Stephen looked
out more eagerly for some one to talk to him. It was his
fareAvell, in a measure, to life. And Ned was but too glad to
stop and lean against the outer gill, always keeping an eye up-
on the door, and Mrs Drunimoud'H win<lowH. lie was not
handsome. He had a large noso -too large for the rest of his
face — which his aunt Mrs. Everest, sometimes comforted him
by suggesting was a «igu of oharacter and energy, but which
Ned havl been used to hear all his friends laugh ai-. The Yi>ung
community at Dura had brought themselves up xn all the
frankness of family relations, and were wont to laugh freely at
Ned's nose, as they laughed at Katie's large teeth, and as,
while they were children, they had laughed at Clara's red hair
On that last particular they were undecided now, and gloried

274

AT HIS GATES.

were still amusing to everybody concerned,
had not any feature which was so good as
imperfection. He had "nice," eyes, a tolerable

in it as fashion required ; but Katie's teeth and Ned's nose

Poor boy ! he
to redeem this
mouth, and
was well grown and strong ; but nobody could say he was
handsome. And then, though he was a gentleman in thought
and heart, he was a gentleman of twenty whose real refine-
ment had not yet had time to work out to the surface, and sof-
ten away the early asperities. This was why he looked boor-
ish and loutish in the presence of Cyril Rivers, who had not
only the easy confidence which springs from good looks, but
that inevitable surface suavity which can only be attained by
' intercourse with the world.

" You are not shooting to day," said Stephen, from within.

" No; we were all late this morning. I don't know why we
should be such muflfs," said Ned. " Merewether had to go ofif
to town to get his leave extended ; and Kivers is too fine a
gentleman, I suppose, to take much trouble. That's not fair,
though. I did not mean it. He is a very good shot."

" Who is he ? " said Stephen. I have been hearing a great
deal about him this morning,"

" Oh, have you 1" Ned looked yellow as the limeleaves
which came tumbling about his head, and his nose was all that
was visible under the hat which somehow, in his agitation, he
had pulled over his brows. " He is a man about town, I suppose.
He is a member for somewhere or other — his father's borough.
He is an aesthetic sort of politician, diplomatist, whatever you
like to call it : a man who plays at setting all the world right."

" But who does not please Ned Burton, I am afraid," said
Stephen, with a smile. " I hear you all enjoyed yourselves

very much last night."

"Did we?" said Ned.
don't think of much else,
the absurdity of things.

"The girls did. I suppose they
But as one grows older, one sees
To think of a man, a rational being,
putting his brains in his pocket, and giving himself up to the
cultivation of his legs ! Oh, yes ; we all did our fetish worship,
and adored the great god Society, and longed to offer up a few
human sacrifices ; though there are enough, I suppose, without
any exertion of ours," said Ned, leaning both his arms on the
window. He heaved such a sigh, that the leaves fluttered and

AT HIS GATES.

275

whirled before the mighty breath. And Stephen Haldane sup-
pressed a lau«i;h, though he was not very gay. It was hardly
possible to help being amused by this juvenile despair. And
yet, poor Stephen going back into those old memories, which
looked a thousand years off, could not but recollect, with a
smile and a sigh, similar hours and moments, in which he too
had sounded the very depths of tragedy and endured all the
tortures of despair.

" My poor boy," he said, with a tone which was half comic,
half pathetic, "I feel for you Did yon ever hear of ces
beaux jours quandfetais si malheureux ? "
Ned looked up in a blaze of sudden resentment.
" I did not think I had said anything funny — though it is
always pleasant to have amused you, Mr Haldane," he said,
with desperate politeness. " I am going to the post-office. I
rather think I shall have to be post-man and carry out the bag
to-day. Good morning. I ought not to have stood so long
keeping you from yonr book."

5ut Stephen's laugh was very low and tender when the
young fellow went on, walking at the rate of six miles an
hour. Poor Ned! There was not so much to laugh at, for
he had serious difficulties in his way, difficulties of which he
had tried to remind himself as he turned up the village street,
by way of making himself a little more unhappy. But the at-
tempt did not succeed. The fact was that his real troubles
counted for nothing in the mixture of misery and anger which
filled his youthful bosom. The shadow which filled the air with
blackness, and made life intolerable, was — Norah. She had
slighted him, wounded him, preferred some one else. In pres-
ence of this terrible sorrow, all the doubts about his future ca-
reer, the serious question about the business, the discussions of
which he had been the subject, faded into insignificance. It
seemed to Ned even that he would gladly consent to go into
the business at half an hour's notice if only that half hour
would procure him the chance of making himself more mise-
rable still by an interview with Norah. What a f joI he was,
poor boy ! how wretched he was ! and what poor creatures those
people are who are never wretched and never fools !

Ned Burton lounged about into half the shops in the village
in his unhappiness. He bought an ugly little mongrel from

276

AT HIS GATES.

a lying porter at the station, who swore to its purity of
blood. Ned, in an ordinary way knew a great deal more ab .jiib
this subject than the porter did, but it gained him a little time
and Norah might, for anything he knew, become visible in the
meantime. He went into Wigginton's and bought a rose-colour-
ed ribbon for his straw hat. It was quite unsuitable: but
Norah wore rose-coloured ribbons, and it was a forlorn profess-
ion of allegiance, though nobody would ever know it. He
went to the confecttoner's, and bought a bag of cakes, with
which he fed half a dozen gaping children outside. In short
he visited as many tradespeople as Mother Hubbard did. But
it was all in vain. No Norah passed by ; no one like her went
into any of the shops. When he passed the Gatehouse once
more the windows were all vacant still. Tlien Ned took jp,
desperate resolution, and went and paid a visit to the Rectory.
He sat with Mrs. Dalton in the drawing-room, and then he
strolled round the garden with the girls. When things had
come to this pass. Providence befriended him, in the shape of
Mr. Nicholas, to take up Mary's attention. As soon as he
was alone with her sister, Ned seized the opportunity.

" Katie," he said, breatbless, " you might do me such a fa-
vour."

" Might I ? " said friendly Katie j " then of course I will,
Ned."

" You are always the nicest and the kindest ! Katie, I have
something to say to Norah Drummond ; something I — have to
tell her — by herself. I can't go into the house, for it is some-
thing — a kind of a secret."

" I'll run and fetch her. I know what you have got to say to
her," said Katie, laughing. " Oh, how funny you are ! Why
didn't you say it right out, you silly boy 1 "

" It is not what you mean at all," said Ned, with great gravity.

But Katie laughed, aud ran across the road.

And this was how the interview- came about. Norah came
over to the Kectory in all innocence, fearing nothing. She
said, " Oh, Ned is here too ! " as if nothing had happened. In-
deed, she was not aware that anything had happened — only
that a game at croquet would be the best way of spending the
listless afternoon after the dissipation of the previous night.
They sat down on a bench behind that clump of laurels which

AT HIS GATES.

277

hid a portion of the lawn from the windows of the Rectory.
Mary and Mr. Nicholas were walking up and down, round
and round. The red geraniums were still bright in the boi*
ders, with all manner of asters, and salvias, like scarlet velvet.
The autumn leaves were dropping singly, now one, now another,
without any sound ; the air was very still and soft, the sun
shining through a pleasant haze. A sheaf of great, spendid,
but dusty gladiolus, stood up against the danc green laurel.
They were like Clara in her full and brilliant beauty — not like
little Norah in her grey frock, sitting quit still and happy,
thinking of nothing, on the warm bench in t sunshine, with
her hands folded in her lap, waiting for K lo come back
with the croquet mallets, and altogether unconscious of the
dark looks Ned was casting upon her from under his hard brows.

" I suppose Katie will come when she is ready," he said, in
reply to some question. " She is not always at your word and
beck, like me."

" Are you at my word and beck 1 " she said, looking round up-
on him with some surprise. " How funny you look, Ned ! Is
anything the matter 1 Are you — going away 1 "

*' I often think I had best go away," said Ned, in Byronic
melancholy. " That would be better than staying here and hav-
ing every desire of my heart trampled on . It seems hard to leave
you ; and I am such a fool — I always stay on, thinking anything
is better than banishment. But after being crushed tu the earth,
and having all my wishes disregarded, and all my feelings tram-
pled on "

" Oh, Ned ! what can you mean t Who has done it 1 Is it
that dreadful business again ) "

" Business ! " said Ned, with what he would have described
as the hollow laugh of despair. " That seemed bad enough
when I had nothing worse to bear. But now I would embrace
business ; I would clasp it in my arms. Business ! No ! That
aifiected only my inclinations ; but this goes to my heart."

" Ned," said Norah, growing pale, " you must be over-tired.
That is it. You shoot all day — and then the ball last night.
Poor boy ! you are taking fancies in your head. You don't
know what you are saying. You have been over-tired,"

Upon which Ned shook his head, and laughed again, this
time " wildly." He was very miserable, poor fellow, and yet

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AT HIS OATBS.

it Jciannot be said that he was quite indifferent to th^ effect he
Produced. It gave him a certain satisfaction in tho midst of
his despair.

" If you were to ask yourself, Norah, what is the matter,
instead of suggesting so far less than the reality-^so much
" he began. ' ■\uni4n^

Then Norah took courage.

** Is that all ! " she said. ** Oh, what a fright you gave me !
Is it only something I have done without Imowing it ? You
ridiculous,^ silly boy ! Why can't you tell me plainly what it
is, without all this nonsense 1 You know it is nonsense," Norah
continued, warming as she went on. " What can I have done )
Besides, however disagreeable I might have been, what right
have you to mind 1 Nobody else minds. I am not a slave,
n^ver to be allowed to make myself unpleasant. There ! I
will be disagreeable if I like^ I am not to be always bound
to do what is pleasant to you."

" If you mean to take me up in this spirit, Norah "

" Yes, I mean to take you up in this spirit. You have no
right to feel everything like a ridicule us sensitive plant Why
should you ? If I were a sensitive plant I might hav< some
cause. I am little, I am friendless, I am very poor ; I have
nothing in the world but mamma. But for you to set up to
have feelings, Ned ! that can go where you like, and do what
you like, and have heaps of money, and everybody bowing
down before you ! It is because you have nothing reaJty to vex
you, that you are obliged to invent things. Oh, you wicked,
ungrateful boy, to pretend that you are unhappy ! Look at
Mr. Stephen, and look at mamma ! "

" But, Norah," said N^d hurriedly ; " Norah, dear I listen to
me only one moment."

" You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said. " I won't
listen to you. I have plenty of things to bother me, and you
have nothing. You never had to think whether you could
spend this or that — whether you could have a new coat, or go
a journey, or anything ; and you go and make troubles ^because
vou have not got any." Here she made a pause, turning her
head away, so that poor Ned was more miserable than ever.
And then all at once she turned and looked up ktndly at him.
" What was it I did, Ned 1 "

AT HIS GATES.

279

This sudden reyolution overwhelmed him altogether. He
felt the water leap to his eyes. He was so young. And then
he laughed unsteaaily.

" What a girl you are, Norah ! " he said.

" Was I cross last night ) What did I do f I didn't mean
it, I am sure. I came over quite innocently, never thinking
Katie was bringing me to be scolded. It wa^ not friendly oi
Katie. She ought to have told me. But !Ned, what wasiti
Toll me what I did."

" Noi-ah, things must not go on like this. I cannot do it.
It may be as much as my life is worth," said the youth. ** Look
at those two over there ; they may quarrel sometimes "

" They quarrel every day of their lives," said Norah, breath-
less, in a parenthesis.

" ;6ut they know that they belong to each other," said Ned ;
" they know that right or wrong nobody will part them. But,
Norah, think how different I am. You may not mind, but it
kills me. Once you said you loved me — a little."

" I love — everybody ; we, all of us, love each other," said
Norah, in a subdued voice.

" But that is not what I want. I love you very differently
from that, Norah j you know I do. I want you to belong to
me as Mary belongs to Nicholas. Next year I will bd of age,
and something must be settled for me, Norah. How do you
think I can face all this talking and all this advising if I don't
know what you are going to do ) Give me your hand, Norah ;
give it me into mine ; it is not the first time. Now, am I to
keep it always 1 Tell me yes or no."

« Oh ! you hurt me— a Httle, Ned ! "

" I cannot help it," he said ; not so much, not half so much,
as you hurt me. Oh, Norah, put yourself in my place ! Think,
only think, how I can bear to see you talking to other people,
smiling at them, looking up as you look at me. Is it possible,
Norah 1 And perhaps I may have to go away to fight with the
world, and make my own career. And you would send me
all in the dark without knowing 1 Oh, Norah, it would be
cruel ; it would not be like you."

" Please, j>lea(ie, Ned ! Mary and Mr. Nicholas are coming.
Let go my hand."

*' Not until you give me some sort of answer," said Ned,

280

AT HIS GATES.

" I have loved you since ever I can remember — since I was a
boy, iHghtened to speak to you. You have always laughed and
gibed; but I never minded. I love you more than all the world,
Norah ! 1 can't help thinking it would be so easy for you to love
me, if you would only try. You have known me since we
were children. You have always had me to order about, to
do whatever you liked with."

"Wait till they have passed," said Norah, in a whisper,
drawing her hand out of his.

And then the elder pair, who were engaged, and had a right
to walk about together, and hold long private conferences, and
quarrel and make friends, passed slowly, suspending their talk
also out of regard for the others.

" Are you tired waiting for Katie 1 " Mary said. " She is
so tiresome ; always finding something unexpected to do." •

" Oh, I am talking to Ned. • We are in no hurry," Norah re-'
plied.

And then those full-grown lovers, the pair who had devel-
oped into actuality, whom Ned envied, and who had been having
a very sharp little quarrel, passed on.

Ned was very much in earnest, poor fellow. His face was
quite wprn and full of lines. There was a strain and tremulous
tension abou# him which showed how high his excitement was.

'*It isn't as if this was new to you, Norah," he cried piteously.
" You have known it ever so long. And I cannot help thinking
you might love me so easily, if you would, Norah, you are so
used to me — if you only would !"

Norah was very sympathetic, and his emotion moved her
much. She cast down her eyes ; she could not bear to look at
him, and she nearly cried.

" Oh, Ned," she said, " I do love you. I am very fond of
you ; but how can I tell if it is in that way 1 How can you
tell 'i We are just like brother and sister. We have never
known anybody else all our lives."

" I have," said Ned, " I have known hundreds. And there
is no girl in all the world but one, and that is you. Oh, Norah,
that is you !"

• ** But I have never, seen any one," said Norah again. She
spoke so very softly that he could scarcely hear. " I have
never seen any one," she repeated, heavipg a gentle sigh — a

i i.

AT HIS GATES.

281

>:H.i 1

sigh which was half regret for Ned, and half for herself. *' Bear
Ned, I do love you. But how could I tell until I saw "

" Ah !" he cried, and let her hand drop in his youthful im
patience and mortification. " If that is all your answer, Norah,
the hest thing for me is to rush away. Why should I stay hero
any longer ) There will he nothing to live for, nothing tti hope
for !"

** Oh, don't talk nonsense, Ned !"

"It is not nonsense," said Ned,rising up. "Norah, if you'hear
I am gone you will Imow why it is. If you hear of anythins
happening to me, I hope you will he sorry. Oh, Norah, N orah,
he cried, the tears forcing themselves to his eyes, " is it all to
endUkethisr'

He was so young. His despair was real, though it might be
too tragical in its outward form. He was capable of going
away, as he said, and making himself hugely uncomfortable,
and for a time intensely unhappy ; end yet perhaps being all
the better for it in the end. But Norah, who was not much
wiser than himself, was driven to her wits' end by this adjura-
tion, and did not know what to say.

*^ Ned, don't be so sorry," she said, taking his hand in her
turn. " Oh, dear Ned, I do love you ; but your people would
be very angry, and we are so young. We must not think of
such things yet. Oh, I am sure I did not mean to make you
unhappy. Don't cry. I could not bear to see you crying,
Ned !"

" I am not crying," he said roughly. He had to be rough,
he had been so near it. And just at this moment Katie came
smiling up with the mallets over her shoulders. He could not
come down from that elevation of feeling into this. ** I am
afraid I must go now," he said, almost turning his back upon
them. *' I am going to the — to the station now. Merewether
is coming by this train."

" Oh, Ned, how unkind of you, when everything is ready for
a game !" cried Katie. But Norah said nothing as he strode
away, giving a nod at them over his shoulder. He had not been
boorish while he was pleading his own cause ; but he had not
the heart to be civil when it was over. Caesars of twenty do
not pull their cloaks gracefully about them when they are
going to die.

282

AT HIS GATES.

: Then Norah suddenly turned upon her companion, and
metaphorically gagged and bound her.

" How tiresome it was of you to be so long !" she cried.
** Here we have been waiting and waiting, till Ned's time was
up ; and so is mine. I must go back to mamma."

" Why, I have not been gone ten minutes !" cried indignant
Katie.

But Norah, too, waved her hand, and moved majestically
away. She could scarcely keep from crying. Her heart was
full, something was quivering in her throat. It was not so much
her own emotion as the reflection of his. Poor Ned ! how hard
it was that he should.be so miserable. She wanted to get safely
to her own room, that she might think it over ! She walked
across the road as if she had been in a dream. She did not
hear Mr. Stephen call to her in her abstraction. She went in
enveloped, as it were, in a cloud of sad and curious fancies, \
woiidering — Was it all over 1 Would he never say any more
About it ) Would he go away, and never be heard of more 1
Would it — and the very thought of this thrilled through Norah's
veins, and chilled her heart — would it do him harm ) Would
he die )

I !

it >

AT HIS GATES.

28a

CHAPTER XXIX.

RS. BURTON had taken a very serious piece of work
in hand. No wonder that she lingered over the fire in
the hbrary, or in her drawing-room, or wherever she
could find a fire, in those early chills of October, to warm her
little cold toes, and to make up her plan of warfare. She was
a chilly little woman, as I have said. She had not much except
a mind to keep her warm, and mind is not a thing which pre-
serves the caloric thoroughly unless it is comforted by the close
vicinity of other organ(>. Mrs. Burton had no body to speak of ;
and, so far as has been seen, not very much heart. Her mind
had to fulfil all the functions usually performed by these other
properties, and to keep her warm besides ; so that it was not
wonderful if she sat over the fire.

It was not to be expected, however, that the Machioness would
always be so obliging as to remain in her room till three o'clock;
and consequently Mrs. Burton's thinking had to be done at odd
moments when the cares of the household could be lawfully
laid aside. She was rather in bondage to her distinguished
guest ; and as she was a little republican, a natural democrat at
hearty the bondage was hard to her. She was a great deal
cleverer than the Marchioness of Upshire ; her mind went at
railroad speed, while that great lady jogged along at the gen-
tlest pace. Where the heart is predominant, or even a good
honest, placid body, there is tolerance for stupidity ; but poor
intellect is always intolerant. Mrs. Burton chafed at her noble
companion, and suffered tortures inwardly ; but she was very
civil, so far as outward appearance went, and did her duty as
hostess in a way which left nothing to be desired.

But it took all her powers to master the problem before her.
She had an adversary to overcome ; an adversary whom she did
not despise, but whom everybody at the first glance would have
thought too slight a creature to merit so much as a thought. Mrs.
Burton knew better. She looked at Norah Drummond not in her
simple and evident shape as a little girl of eighteen, the daugh-

284

AT HIS GATES.

ter of a poor mother, who lived upon a hundred pounds a year.
This was what Norah was ; and yet she was a great deal more.
She was the commander of a little compact army, of which the
two c)uef warriors, love and nature, were not much known to
Mrs. Burton ; but which was reinforced by youth, and supreme
perverseness and selfwill, powers with which she was perfectly
acquainted. Ned's love his mother might ^)erhap8 have laughed
at ; but Ned's obstinacy, his determination to have his own way
were opponents at which she could not laugh ; and they were
arrayed again, t her. So was the capricious fancy, and perverse
individuality of Cyril Rivers, who was a man accustomed to be
courted, and not over-likely to fall into an arrangement made
for him by his family. Mrs. Burton pondered much upon all
these things. She found out that her guest was seen at the
Gatehouse almost every day, and she saw from her son's aspect
that he too knew it, &nd was begining to hate his rival. Then
there arose a little conflict in her mind as to which of her two
children she should make herself the champion of. A mother,
it may be thought, would incline most to the daughter's side ;
but Mrs. Burton was not an emotional mother. She was not
scheming how she could save her children pain. The idea of
sufiering on their part did not much affect her — ^at least, suffer-
ing of a sentimental kind. She formed her plan at last with a
cold-blooded regard . to their advantage, founded on the most
careful consideration. There was no particular feeling in it one
wi.y or another. She had no desire to injure Norah, or even
Noiuli's mother, more than was inevitable. She had not even
any harsh or revengeful feelings towards them. To confound
their projects was necessary to the success of her own — that
v/as all ; but towards themselves she meant no harm. With an
c({uul impartiality she decided that her operations should be on
Ned's side. If she could be said to have a favourite, it was Ned.
Clara was self-seeking and self-willed to a degree which was
disagreeable to Mrs. Burton. Such strenuous sentiments were
vulgai- and coarse to the more intellectually constituted nature.
And Clara had so much flesh and blood, while her mother had
so little, and this, too, weakened the sympathy between them.
The mother, who was all mind, could not help having a certain
involuntary unexpressed contempt for the daughter whose over-
whelming physique cairied her perpetually into a different world.

AT HIS 0ATE3.

285

But what was vulgar in Clara was allowable in Ned ; and then
Ned had talent in his way, and had taken his degree already, and
somewhat distinguished himself, though he was careful, as he
himself said, to " put his brains in his pocket," and refrain from
all exhibition of them when he got homo. Then, it would not
have flattered Mrs. Burton'.'^ vanity at all to see her daughter the
Hon. Mrs., or even Lady Rivers ; but it was a real object with
her to see her son in Parliament. She had tried hard to thrust
her husband into a seat, with a little swell of impatience and
ardour in her heart, to have thus an opportunity of exercising
her own powers in the direction of the State. It was a thing
she could have done, and she would have given half her life to
have it in her power. But this had turned out an impossible
enterprise, and now all her wishes were set upon Ned. With
the Merewethers' influence, in addition to their own, Ned,
almost as soon as he had come of age, might be a legislator.
With the talents he had derived from her, and which she would
stimulate and inspire, he might be of service to his country. It
was not an ungenerous aspiration ; it was rather, on the con-
trary, as noble a wish as mere intellect could form. And to
attain this it was necessary that Ned should gain his father^s
favour by bringing a splendid connection to the house of Dura ;
and that, on the other hand, he should obtain that influence
which was his shortest way to the coveted position. What
did it matter if a temporary heart-break were the price he had
to pay, or even a temporary humiliation in the shape of giving
up his own will 1 His mother deci(^^d for him that such a price
was a very small matter to pay. kjhia made up her mind ac-
cordingly that he should pay it at once, and in its most unques-
tionable form. That Clara should be humbled too, and
exposed to tortures .of wounded pride and mortification, was a
pity ; but there was no other way.

This, then, was Mrs. Burton's plan : to encourage young
Rivers, the suitor whom her husband had chosen for her daugh-
ter, to devote himself to Norah ; to throw him continually in
the girl's way ; to make him display his admiration, and if
possible his devotion to her ; to delude Norah into satisfaction,
even response, to the assiduities of her new suitor; and by
these meaniB to disgust and detach Ned from the object of his
youthful aflfection. It was a bold scheme, and at the same

286

AT HI8 OATEa

time it promised to be an easy one. As to what might follow in
respect to Clara, the risk would have to be run ; but it did not
seem a very great risk. In the first place, Clara's " feelings "
(a word at which her mother smiled) were not engaged ; and
• in the second place, Cyril Rivers, though he might be foolish
enough, was not such a fool as to throw his handsome self away
upon a penniless girl without connections or anything to re-
commend her. Tnere was very little fear that it would ever
oome to that. He might fall in love with Norah, might flatter
and woo, and oven break (Mrs. Burton smiled again, the risk
seemed so infinitesimal) the girl's heart ; but he was not likely,
as a man of the world, to commit himself. And, if after her
end was served it might be thought expedient still that he
should marry Clara, why a flirtation of this kind could make
very little difference ; it might put a stop to Mrs. Burton's
ideas at the moment, but it need not affect them in the future.
. She made this plan, with her toes warming at the library fire,
and she did not confide it to any one. Such schemes sound a
^eat deal worse when they are put into words than they feel
m the recesses of the bosom that gave them birth. She felt
very well satisfied when she had thus settled what to do. It
seemed the minimum of pain for the maximum of advantage ;
and then it was a kind of pain which Mrs. Burton could not
but contemplate with a certain mockery, and which she could
but faintly realize.

At luncheon that day it turned out, as she supposed, that
Mr. Rivers was not one of the shooting party. He had been
writing letters, he said ; he was going to call at the Rectory in
the afternoon to see Mr. Dalton. In short, he had an appoint-
ment. Mr. Dalton was a member of the Anthropological So-
ciety to which he also belonged.

** I wonder if I might ask you to do something for me," said
Mrs. Burton. " It is just to leave a note at the Gatehouse.
You know the Gatehouse 1 Mrs. Drummond's, just opposite
tho Rectory."

"Certainly. I know Mrs. Drummond," said Rivers. He
aoswered very promptly, feeling that there was a covert Attack
intended, and that this was meant to remind him of the allegi-
ance he owed elsewhere. His reply had thus quite an unneces-
sary degree of promptitude and explanatorinessi "I have

AT HIS OJLTBS.

887

known her for many years. In fact, I called there yesterday."
He felt it was Axpedient for his own indepoiidence to assert his
freedom of action at once.

" Then you won't mind leaving my note," said Mrs. Burton.
" We are getting up a picnic for Wednesday, you know ; and
I should like Norah to be with us. She has rather a dull life
at home, poor child."

" That is the pretty girl you were dancing with, Mr. Rivers,"
said Lady Florizel, *' with dark hair and hundreds of little
flounces. I should have said she was too little for so many
flounces, if she had consulted me."

" That is the mistake girls always make," said the March*
ioness, " especially girls who are not in society. They foUoiw
the fashion without ever thinking whether it suits them or
not.

" But, under correction, I think it did suit her," said Mrl
Rivers. ** Do not let us call them flounces — call them cloudy,
or lines of soft white mist I am not sufficiently learned ii^
chiffons to speak."

" Oh, but you are delightful on chiffons /" said Lady FkrizeL
" Men always are when they know just a little. Sometimes,
you know, one can actually derive an idea from you ; and then
you make the most delicious mistakes. Clara, let us make him
talk chiffons; it is the greatest fun in the world."

'' I have more confidence in my maid," said Clara. She was
not in the habit of controlling herself or hiding her emotions^
She contracted her white forehead, which was not very high by
nature, with a force which brought the frizzy golden fringe of
hair over her very eyebrows — and pouted with her red lips. **Bot
sides, Mr. Rivers has something better to do," she said, getting
up from the table. . i

She was the first to get up— a thing which filled the March^
ioness with consternation. Clara was a girl of the nineteenth
century, feeling that her youth, and her bloom, and riotous,
luxurious beauty made her queen of the more gently toned,
gently mannered company. She broke up the party with that
pout and frown. ^n (n^

Rivers went away with the note in his pocket, believing d«^
voutly that it had been intended for a snare for him, a way of
interfering with his freedom. " Let her wait at least till I am

5j&e;.*^w*ws^^;ij5rasf?«sc^^ ,

288

▲T HIS GATES.

in her toils, which will not be just yet/' he said to hknself
while he went down the avenue; while Clara pursued her
mother, who had gone to put on her bonnet to accompany the
Marchioness on her drive, up-stairs.

" How could you, mamma f ' she cried. " Oh, how could
you Y It is beoause you think nothins of me ; vou don't care
for me. To ask the Drummonds at all was bad enough ; but
to send Cyril Rivers to ask them. It seems too bad even for
you."

" Clara, what is Cyril Rivers to you 1 '*

" To me 1 " Clara faltered, stopped short, was silent, gazing
at her mother with blue, wide-open eyes, which astonishment
made round. Even to a dauntless girl, accustomed to speak
her mind, the question was a hard one. She could not answer,
" Papa means nim to marry me. He is my property ; no one
has fLuy right to him but me," as she might have done had she
spoken at all. It requires a very great deal of hardihood to'

Snt such sentiments into speech, and Clara, with all her confi-
ence, was not quite bold enough. She gazed at her mother
with angry blue eyes, speaking with them what she could not
say in woras ; but all she could do audibly was to murmur
again, " To me 1 "

** Yes, to ^ou. I don't see what ri^ht you have to interfere.
If you consider that you have any just right, state it to me ;
ana if I find it reasonable I will tell you what I am doing; but,
otherwise, not a word. In the circumstances, composure and
patience are the best things for you. I am acting, and I shall
act, towards Mr. Rivers according to principles of my own, and
a system of my own ; and I don't mean to be interfered with,
Claxa. You understand that."

"I shall speak to papa," said Clara, in her anger. " I shall
just tell it all to papa."

"Do, my dear, ' said her mother calmly, and put on her bon-
net It was dear that now, at least, there was not another
word to be said.

Clara went away in her anger to Lady Florizel for sympathy.

" Mamma has made up her mind to ask those people," she
said. " And I hate them. They are low people — people that
ought not to be asked to meet you."

** Oh, as for us, never mind ! They will not hurt us," said

AT BIS GATES.

289

Lady Florisel, 8hrum|ing her shoulden ; but I thought you told
me you were great mends with the people in the vulage before
the ball"

'<That is the worst of all/' said CUra. <<We are great
friends. They are all the company I ever had before I came
out. But now, when I don't require them any longer, they
have ffrown disasreeable ; and yet there is the old habit exist-
ing all the same.

" Poor Clara 1" said her new companion, ** what a bore for
you I Village companions are so apt to be a bore. But I am
sure if you were to talk to your mamma she would find some
way of getting rid of them. That would be the best."

** Why, it is she that is asking them," said Clara.

And it became more and more apparent that her injury was
past help ; for in the face of her mother's invitation what could
even papa do 1"

Mr. Kivers carried the note with much fidelity to its desti-
nation. ** I should not have ventured to come," he said, when
he went in and met Mrs. Drummond's look of suspicion, *' but
for this. And I hope it will find favour in your eyes. I sup-
pose I am to wait and take an answer ? Aad it will be a fa-
vourable answer, I hope."

Helen and her child had been talking of him before he ap-
peared, and Norah had been a little agitated, half-pleasur-
ably, half-painfuUy, by her mother^s warning.

" I do not like him to come so often/' Mrs. Drummond had
said. " Whether he means anything or not> I would much
rather he did not come."

" Mean, mamma ! What could he mean, except to talk to
you a little 1 I am sure he does not mean anything," Norah
had cried, with the premature confidence of her age.

And then he had made his appearance, and with the know-
ledge of that brief discussion in her mind she was embarras-
sed, and felt as if he must read all about it in her eyes.

" May I tell you what it is, Miss Drummond," he asked,
turning to her, while her mother opened the note, and sinking
his voice. " It is a picnic to the old tower of Dura. I sup-
pose you know all about it. It is to be on Wednesday, and I
hope you will come."

" Oh, a picnic I" said Norah, with a flush of joyful antici-
a

rimwa

290^

AT mS GATES.

pittion. ''I never was at a real grown-up picnic. iBhonfd like
it so much, if mamma thinks we may."

" But perhaps you could influence mamma."

" No, no. I don't think it I would rather not botheriher,"
said Norah, with a little, hegitation, feeling all her embarrass^
ment return. " Of course she must know best."

"Oh, of course," said Mr. Rivers. He smiled as he looked
at her, and Norah, giving a wistful, furtive glance at him, was
suddenly seized with spontaneous wonder as to what he
meant— a question not arising from what her mother had said,
but from herself. The thought sprung up in her mind un-
awares, bringing with it a blushi What could he mean ? Why
did he come so often 1 Why did he wish that she should have
this new pleasure? What could it matter to him? There
would be plenty of people at the picnic— young people, nice
people, pretty people, people all dressed in purple and fine
linen— who would be much more like him than Norah. Andj
why should he care ? A delicious doubt, a delicious suspicion
came into her thoughts. Gould it be possible? Might it
really, really — ? 'She shut some. little trapdoor down upon it
resolutely in her mind, and would not look at, would not con-
sider that suggestion ; but it ran through all her veins when
she cast it out of her thoughts. Could it be possible 1 And
this was not Ned Burton, a boy whom she had known all her
life, but the hero of romance himself — he who looked as if he
had walked out of a book. It flattered her — she could not tell
why. She cast down her eyes, for he had been looking at her
all the time, and it seemed to her as if he must be able to tell
her thoughts.

i But he did not. He took up the cotton with which she was
working, and wound and unwound it upon his fingers.;

"I have to run over to the Rectory," he said. "Perhaps I
had better do that dow, and come back to get my answer.
Perhaps then I might have a cup of tea ? This room is the
very sort of room to drink tea in. The first dish of tea must
have been made here."

" It is not so old as that." »

" Oh, it is as old as we like to believe it," said Mr.'^ Rivers.
** Don't disturb Mrs. Drummond. I will go away now, and in
half an hour I shall come back." And he let himself out like

AT HIS OATES.

291

a child of the house, assiiming a familiarity tp which he had
not any right.

Norah sat ^uite tremulous, yet perfectly quiet, after he was
gone, wondenng, and trying to stop herself from wondering —
feeling somehow that this must be that power of which she
had read, which made the strongest and best of men subject to
a girl — and feeling that it was not possible, seeing the ^d was
"only me."

"It is another invitation," Mrs. Drummond said, with a
little sigh. " You must decide about it, Norah. It will be a
pleasure to you, and it seems hard you should not have a little
pleasure. But, on the other hand, my dear, after all you told
me about Ned, and how Mr. Rivers — — "

" There is nothing about Mr. Rivers, mamma."

" Perhaps not, perhaps not, dear. I do not say there is—
anything, Norah ; but still it is not comfortable that he should
come so often. There is the note. I will not say yes or no,
my darling. You shall decide whether we shall go or stay."

Norah read the note over with glowing eyes. The blood
came hot to her face. It seemed to open up before her a day
out of Paradise. The children had made picnics among them-
selves often enough to Dura Tower. They had gone in the
height of the summer for a long day ; the boys walking, the
girls packed into Mrs. Dalton's pony-carriage, or the little
donkey-chair, which lived in the village. Bread and butter,
and fruit, and hard-boiled eggs, and bottles of milk was what
they used to take with them ; and they would come home
laden with garlands of the lush woodbine, with honeysuckles
in sheaves, and basketfuls of those fragile wild-flowers which
never survive the plucking, but which children cannot resist.
These old days rose before her with all their sweetness. But
this was different ; — one of the Dura carriages to take them
up ; a few hours among the woods, and luncheon out of doors,
if it was warm enough ; " to show the Marchioness and the
young ladies what little antiquities we have." Perhaps the
grandeur and the glory of the society would make up for the
absence of the brilliant summer, and the freedom of the child-
ish party ; but yet She looked up shyly at her mother

with cheeks that were crimson upon her dark eyelashes.

"I suppose, mamma, it would be selfish of me to want to go?"

292

AT HIS GATES.

** That means you do want to go, Norah/' said Helen, shak-
ing her head softly, with a half-reproachful smile.

" Is it wrong f " said Norah, stealing behind her mother's
chair with a coaxing arm round her neck. " I never saw any-
thing like it. I siMuld like, just this once. Our old little
parties were such baby affairs, mamma. That donkey-chair,
what fun it was ! And oh ! do you remember how it always
ran away, and that time when little Jenny fell asleep 1 But
this will be grand— something to see. And you will like the
drive; it is such a pretty drive ; and the woods will be lovely.
I never was, there in October before."

" You coaxing child, as Miss Jane says ; you want to go."

" Yes, please, mamma."

And Norah dropt a little curtsey demurely like the child she
was no longer. And yet as she stood there in her grey frock,
she was so very like a child that Helen had to rub her eyes
and ask herst.lf what was this wonderful difference. Yester- >
day or so Norah had trudged along among the boys, taking her
share, pushing them about, carying her own basket in ail the
ban camaraderie of childhood. Now she was the princess,
drawing her wistful looks after her, breaking poor Ned's heart,
attracting the other hero out of his natural sphere. How was
it 1 The mother sighed a little, wondering, and smiled, with
a sense that the world which had so long neglected her, was
offering to her, to herself, not to Norah, the sweetest, strangest
flatteries. She was anxious as to how it might all end, and
sometimes was unhappy ; and yet she was pleased — what mo-
ther ever was otherwise 1 — "to see her bairn respected like
the lave."

And then Mr. Bivers came back for his cup of tea. What
did he want, haunting the old house ) He came back for the
answer, he said ; and called himself Mrs. Burton's man, and
the penny-post, and made very merry over the whole transac-
tion. But in all this he made it very apparent ^hat any excuse
was sweet to him. And Norah laughed at the ^oke, and cast
down her pretty eyes, and her colour went and came like the
wind. What did he mean 1 Did he mean anything 1 Or
was it for mere amusement that on every pretext possible he
came to the Gatehouse 1

AT HIS GATES.

293

m-'

CHAPTER XXX.

[HERE was, however, another point to be considered be-
fore Wednesday, and that was the question of dress,
which convulses a poor household when unusual festivi-
ties are in progress. Mrs. Drummond's black silk was, as Mrs.
Dalton said, " always nice." It had lasted from Helen's pros-
perous days till now ; it had changed its form half-a-dozen
times, and now, thanks to the beneficent fashion which pre-
vailed of short walking dresses had " come out quite fresh," as
Norah declared in triumph. But Norah did not possess that
toilette fraiche which is indispensable for a young lady at a pic-
nic. Her grey frock was very pretty at home ; but amid all
the shining garments of the great young ladies, their perfect
ribbons, and hats, and boots, and gloves, and all those wonder-
ful accessories which poor people cannot hope for, how could
she look anything but a poor little Cinderella 1 " My dress
would do, mamma — it is not the dress," Norah said, looking at
herself in dismay in the old fashioned long glass in its ebony
frame as they discussed this matter, ** and all that I have is
well enough ; good enough, you know, very nice for common
wear. Short dresses are a blessing, but then they show one's
boots ; and the cuffs, and the collars, and the ribbons ! Per-
liaps we ought not to have said we would go."

"That is what I feared," said Helen. "It is hard you should
not have a little amusement when it comes in your way : and
then there are other things to think of ; but to live among people
who are richer, much richer than one is one's self. —

" What are the other things that have to be thought of ? "
said Norah, with that sudden fantastic jealousy of ulterior mo-
tives which affects the young.

" My dear Norah, I am not mercenary. I would not sacri-
fice your happiness for any worldly motive. I would not even

suggest But, my darling, you must see people — you

must have it in your power to meet those whom — you must
go into the world."

294

AT HIS GATES.

Norah gazed at her mother with dilated eyes. They had
come down into the drawing-room after their inspection of the
poor boots and gloves that suggested Cinderella. And the
child was standing against the light, against the old brown-
grey curtains, which threatened to crumble into dust any day,
and yet held out miraculously. The round mirror made ^ lit-
tle picture of h^r standing there alone, like an old miniature in
dim enamel. But Norah was not dim in herself at that mo-
ment — her brown eyes were dilated and shining — her cheeks
mantled with the overwhelming blush of mingled indignation
and shame. "To meet — people ! — oh ! mamma, mamma, how
can you ! — is it all true, then, what people say 1 "

"Yes," said Helen, gravely, "or at least it is half true. I
am ashamed, and yet I should not be ashamed. I want you to
meet those who can appreciate you, who may love you, Norah, \
and make your life happy. Why should you look at me so in-*
dignantly ? it is my duty. But I do not wish to speak of it to
you."

" Then I am going — to be inspected — ^to be offered in the
market — to be — oh, mamma, I would rather die ! "

" You are going for nothing of the kind. I shall have to put
away my companion and friend who was such a comfort to
me; and send you back into the place of a silly, impatient child."

" So I am," said Norah, throwing herself at her mother's feet,
and hiding her tears and burning cheeks in Helen's gown.
" So I am ; Oh, *inamma, can't I work or do something 1 is
there nothing, nothing in the world for a girl, but that ? "

"Hush, my darling, hush!" said Helen, and it was upon
this group that some one came in suddenly, whose indignation
was prompt at the sight and unhesitating. It was Dr. Mau-
rice, who had come down from London, as he did periodically
to see the child, whom he considered as his ward ; and who in-
stinctively, seeing tears, made up his mind that Norah had
been suffering cruelty, and that the mother was in fault.

" What is the matter 1 " he said. " Norah crying ! I have
not seen her cry before since she was a baby — there must be a
good cause."

" She is growing a woman," said her mother, " and learning
something about life, poor child ; but fortunately this time the
cause is not very grave."

AT HIS GATES.

^95

Norah spriing to her feet and dried her tears. She had de-
vined long ere now that her old friend loved her a great deal
better than he loved her mother. And Norah was ready to
take up arms for her mother, h outrance, night or day.

"No, it was not very much," she said, afl glowing with tears
and blushes and excitement : " it is something you will laugh
at— you will think it so like a silly woman. You know you
bate us all, Dr. Maurice, and that is what you will say."

" Yes, I hate you all," said the doctor, looking at her with
eyes that softened and brightened unconsciously, and a voice
that soanded caressing in spite of himself.

" I know it," said Norah. " Well then, Dr. Maurice, this
is what I was crying about. We are going to a picnic with the
Burtons, and the Marchioness of Upshire, and all kinds of fine
people. And I was crying because I have not got a pretty dress. "

Dr. Maurice gave a short laugh, and then he turned away
his head, and his eyes glistened under his heavy brows.
"Poor child," he said, with a tremble in his voice — if it had
been any one else probably he would have sneered, as Norah
said at the frivolitj^ of woman's nature ; but, because it was
Norah, his heart melted within him, and the water came to his
eyes.

" When is it going to come oflf 1 " he said.

" Oh, to-day — at one o'clock they were to call for us. Dear
doctor," said Norah, looking up at him laughing, yet with the
tears still on her eyelashes, " won't you say that, after all, I
look very nice in my grey frock."

" Go away, child," he said almost angrily, " go and dress
yourself and let me look at you after. I want to speak to your
mamma."

When she heard this Helen was afraid. She believed in
Dr. Maurice because he had been substantially kind, and be-
cause he was her husband's friend ; but she did not like him,
and she had that fear of him which came from the conviction
that he disliked and distrusted her.

" Why is this 1 " he said, as Norah went away. " Mrs. Drum
mond, 1 thought you knew that I looked upon Norah as if she
was my own. She should not want anything if you would let
me know— I think you ought for Norah's sake to get over any
feeling — and put pride aside."

.-»'*,.r'»-'»»W'-

296

AT HIS GATES.

** It is not so ^asy/' said Belen^ with a smile. ** Pride, if
you call it so, sticks very close. You are very, very kind

"I am not kind — I don't mean to be; but I look upon
Korah as if she were my own."

" She is not your own, Dr. Maurice," said Helen with spirit.
" I cannot put a feeling in the place of a right. Nothing in
the worid would make me appeal to a stranger for finery for
my child. We can live with what we have of our own."

" Pride, pride I " said the doctor hastily. " I don't mean to
give offence : but I am not a stranger — I have known the child
from her cradle. Why shouldn't you be so yielding — so kind
if you will — as to tell me when she wants a dress 1 My little
Norah ! she has been a delight to me all my life. If I had my
will she should inistle with the best"

Helen was angry, but she was moved. A man who lov^d
her child could scarcely shut her heart even by disliking her-
self. She put out her hand to the surly critic who had never
trusted her — " Thanks," she said, " many thanks. I accept
your love for Norah ; but I could not accept anything else.
Why, you must know that ! My child, Robert's child, appeal-
ing to your charity ! Dr. Maurice, I am not ungrateful, but
surely Cinderella's frock is better than that."

The doctor was silent, he could not reply. " Poor little
Cinderella ! " he said ; but just then there appeared a vision
at the door, which took away his breath. Men are poor crea-
tures where a woman's dress is concerned. To Dr. Maurice,
who knew no better, Norah's pretty rose-coloured ribbons, the
little end of rose-coloured feathet*, which relieved the black in
her hat, and the fresh little pair of grey gloves, which she had
indulged in, made Cinderella at once, without more ado, into
the fairy princess. " Why, good heavens, child, what would
you have more 1 " he said, almost with offence. He had been
taken in, he thought, and betrayed into an unnecessary warmth
of sympathy. It is true that, after a little, even Dr. Maurice
saw points which might be improved ; but he could not look
upon Norah's toilette with the instructed eyes which Clara
Burton and Lady Florizel turned upon it ; and it was the other
girls, the Marchioness, the ladies who knew, not a mere man,
ignorant as a baby, whom Norah feared.

AT HIS GATES.

297

However, it was grand to see the carriage glide up to the
door, and the ladies get into it. Mrs. Ashurst and her niece
were in it already, two highly respectable persons with claims
to belong to the county. The Rectory people were not asked,
and Katie stood at the window and watched with somewhat
wistful looks, waving hur hand as they drove awav. And Dr.
Maurice put them into the carriage, and stood on the steps with
his hat off watching them too. There was a splendour about it
certainly, whether it was delightful or not. Norah thought of
the donkey-chaise loaden with children, and for a moment
sighed ; she had worn brown hoUand in those days — but now
brown holland all embroidered and decorated was a great deal
too expensive — ^far more costly than her grey — and she had
not cared what she wore then, which was far better ; whilst
now she felt that Miss Ashurst was looking at her, and saw
that her cuffs were rather coarse in texture and her feather no-
thing but a tip. Neither was the drive very lively in the so-
ciety of these respectable ladies, the younger of whom was old-
er than Norah's mother. But when the carriage approached
the end of the pilgrimage, Norah's sky began to brighten. All
the others had already arrived, and on a green knoll in front
of the old tower the luncheon was bein^ arranged. It was a
prettier, gayer sight than the old parties with the donkey-
chaise. Lady Florizel and her sister were standing at one of
the windows in the tower with Ned Burton, looking down : but
among the trees near the gate Cyril Bivers was waiting on the
outskirts of a group, looking round with evident anxiety, wait-
ing to open the carriage door and hand the ladies out. " I am
so glad you have come," he whispered into Norah's ear. His
very face brightened up at the sight of them. There is no
girl living who could withstand such delicate flattery, and that
not from any nobody, not from an old friend and faithful slave
like Ned Burton, but from the hero, the prince of romance.
Norah's heart grew light in spite of herself ; she might be in-
differently dressed, she might even look as she felt, a poor re-
lation : but this distinction all the same was hers — the prince
had found Cinderella out, and none of the others could get a
word from him. He took them to Mrs. Burton, who was do-
ing the honours of the old tower to the Marchioness, and who
received them veiy graciously, giving thanks to some heathen-

298

AT HIS GATES.

ish deity of her own for the success of her plans ; and then he
found a shady spot for them where they could command every
thing. " I suppose you do not care to go over the tower," he
said. " I know it as well ais my A B C," said Norah ; and
then he placed them under the great ash-tree and took up his
own position by Mrs. Drummond's side.

Mrs. Burton gave thanks to her gods for her success. She
;^looked up and saw Ned's eyes peering out of the window above
as if he were about to swoop down upon her. " What are you
doing, Ned," she said in momentary alarm.

" Setting this for Lady Florizel," he said, holding out a tuft
of wild flowers from the old wall. And Mrs. Burton thank-
ed that fetish, whoever he was. But she did not see that be-
tween the line of Ned's hat and his nose, were a pair of eyes
glancing fiercely down upon the ash-tree. If lightning couW
have come out of mortal eyes, that tree would have shrivelled
up and borne no more foliage. The spell was beginning to
work. Perhaps Cyril Rivers would not have so far committed
himself had he not believed that the Burtons had made some
scheme to detach him from Norah's side, and to slight and
scorn her. He thought they had attempted to make him privy
to a plot against her comfort and honour, and that she had been
asked here on purpose to be insulted by that impertinence of so-
ciety which women cannot struggle against. This was the con-
clusion he came to, and all that was chivalrous and kind was stir-
red within him, If everybody else neglected them, he at least
would show that a man's proper place was by the side of the
weak. And then the weak, who had to be succoured, was so
pretty, so charming, so sweet ! A man's 'generous impulses
are immensely strengthened in such cases. Miss Ashurst, who
was as weU bom as anybody there, and as well dressed, was
really neglected by the whole company ; but Mr. Rivers did
not feel himself impelled to her side by his desire to succour
those who were in need.

" Look there, papa," said Clara Burton, going to her father,
and thrusting her hand through his arm, " only look there ! "

" Rivers ! " said Mr. Burton, gazing through the branches,
" with that girl again ! "

" And whosiB fault is it ? Mamma's ! It is all mamma. I
told you; she actually sent him there— sent him to their house !"

AT HIS GATES.

299

" 1 Will soon put a stop to all that ; don't be disturbed,
Clara/' said her father, and he went off with great vehemence
to where his wife was standing. He put his hand on her arm
and drew her away from the Marchioness. " One moment — a
thousand pardons," he said, bowing to the great lady, and then
turned to his wife with the air of a suppressed volcano.
" Clara, what on earth do you mean 1 there's fivers with those
Drummonds again.''

" He has been with them ever since he came, Mr Burton ;
probably he will drive home with them. He seems to have
made himself their attendant for the day."

"But good Lord, Clara ! what do you mean 1 Do you mean
to drive your daughter out of her senses — don't you intend to
interfere 1 "

" I am acting for the best," said Mrs. Burton, " and it will
be at your peril if you meddle. Take it in hand if yoyi please >
but if the work is to be mine I must do it my own way."

" But, Clara, for heaven's sake "

" I have no tima for any more, I must be allowed to work,
if I work at all, in my own way."

And with this poor satisfaction Mr. Burtonhad to be content.
He went away fuming and secretly smarting with indignation,
through the groups of people who were his own guests, gather-
ed together to make him merry, A mixture of rage and be-
wilderment filled his bosom. He could no more bear to have
his Clara crossed than Mrs. Drummond could bear to cross
Norah ; and his wife's silence was far beyond his comprehen-
sion. Clara met him as he came up, with a fluctuating colour,
now pale, now crimson, and her white low forehead almost lost
under the fringe of hair. She clasped his arm energetically
with both hands. " Tell me, papa, what has she got to say 1 "

" Well, Clara, we must not interfere. Your mother has her
own way of acting ; she says it is all right. There are dozens
more who would be glad of a look from you, Clara. For to-
day we are not to interfere."

Clara, who was not in the habit of disguising her feelings,
tossed his arm from her, pulling away her hands ; she was half
wild with injured pride and self-will. She went up to the
group under the tree with anger in her step and in her eye.

" Oh Norah ! " she said, " I did not know you were com-

soo

AT HIS GATES.

ing. Good morning, Mrs. Drummond. Mr. Rivers, I thought
you were altogether lost. You disappeared the moment we
set you down. I suppose you had something more agreeable
in hand."

** I had nothing in hand, Miss Burton, except like everybody
else — to amuse myself, I suppose."

** And you have found a charming way of doing that, I am
sure,'' said poor, jealous, foolish Clara ; her face was flushed,
her voice slightly elevated. She could not bear it ; if it had
been one of the Ladies Merewether, or even one of the Daltons
from the Rectory — but Norah ! It was more than she could
put up with. Mrs. Drummond, who was decorous, the very
soul of good order and propriety, rose up instinctively to co-
ver this little outbreak. " Let us walk about a little," she
said. Let us hide this unwomanly self-betrayal, was what she
meant. \

Norah, too, was wounded and ashamed, though without
feeling herself involved. Clara was "in a temper," Norah
thought. They all knew that Clara in a temper was to be
avoided. She was sorry Mr. Rivers should see it. " Oh Clara !
isn't it strange to be here with everything so different." she
said. " Don't you remember our pranks on the grass when
we were children 1 and your pony which we all envied so
much 1 How odd it is in some ways to be grown up ! "

Clara took no notice of this conciliatory speech, but Mr.
Rivers' did. ** I hope it is not less pleasant," he said.

" I don't know — we walk about now, instead of running
races and playing games. Do you remember, Clara "

" I have not time to talk over that old nonsense," said
Clara. " The Marchioness is calling me ; " and she turned
sharply off and joined her mother, who was with that great
lady. She was quite pale with anger and dismay. She walk-
ed up to Mrs. Burton and looked her in the face. It was her
doing; and then she drew back a step, and stood behind, doing
all she could to make her vexation visible. She wanted to
punish her mother. The others had all dispersed into groups ;
but Clara stood alone, determined to be unhappy. Mrs. Bur-
ton, however, was not punished at all ; her scheme had suc-
ceeded. Her daughter's temper could not last above an hour
or two ; and her son was ssSe. He was walking about with

AT HIS QATE&

801

Lad^ Florizel, ** paying her/' as Miss Ashurst said, ''every at-
tention," under her satisfied eyes.

The picnic ran its course like other picnics. It was very de-
lightful to some, and very wretched — ^a day to date from, as
the unhappiest ever known — to others. Cyril Rivers, did not,
as Mrs. burton had predicted, leave the Drummonds all day.
Had he suspected that this was the very result she aimed at,
and that Ned's lowering hrows and ui^ppy looks were the
very things the party had been given for, the chances are that
he would nave resisted the temptation which was stealing over
him ; but he did not know this, and he did not resist. He
thought they were laying vulgar visible claim to him, before he
had made up his mind one way or another ; and this was a
thing his pnde leiused to allow ; while at the same time Norah
was very sweet. She was a " rosebud set about with wilful
thorns ; " she would not agree with him, nor yield in argu-
ment ; she was not a shadowless beauty idl in broad blaze of
sunshine and complacency, like Clara ; there were clouds and
shadows about her, and a veil of sofb mystery, spontaneous
movements of fancy, wayward digression out of one thing into
another. Mrs. Drummond, who was a spectator at the ban-
quet, grew alarmed. She tried to separate them, to lead Norah
away among the other people. But she was balked in that
by every means. The other people were chiefly county people,
too grand for the Drummonds, who were civil to the hand-
some mother and pretty daughter, but not anxious for their
further acquaintance. Wherever they turned Mr Rivers met
them. He was not cold, nor slow to see when Helen wanted
to seat herself, when she wanted to move about. At last,
when the afternoon was beginning to wane, and the elder ladies
to think of their shawls, some of the younger ones proposed a
dance on the green. Mrs. Drummond was left sitting by her-
self, wbole Norah went to dance with Mr. Rivers, and it was
then for the first time time that Mr. Burton came up to her.
She could not but suppose that hehad been taking too much wine.

** Well, Helen," he said, in his loud voice, " this is an un-
usual sort of scene for you — like it ? I don't suppose you know
many people, though ; but that little girl of yours is going too
fast ; mind my word, she is going too fast."

** I think, Mr. Burton, you mistake **

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302

AT HIS GATES.

** No, I don't mistake ;---goinff too fast — ^trying to lead Cyril
Bivers off his feet, as she dia my Ned. What am I talldAg of 1
No, not Ned ; Ned has more sense — some other of the la48.
But Oyril Rivers, mind you, ain't such a fool as he looks." n

He went on, hut Helen did not hear him. Suddenly the
whole situation glanced upon her. If a flash of lightning had
illuminated eveiything it could not have heen more clear. It
was not a good light or a friendly that blazed over that' scene,
which was confused by so many shades of good and evil feeling.
Helen's whole spirit had been moved in her 1^ the tone and
words of her cousin in respect to her child. He had touched
her daughter — and a woman is as a tigress when a finger is
laid upon her cub, people say.

I don't kuQw if this was any excuse for her ; but certainly,
all in a moment, sometliing appeared within her reach which
made her heart beat. Revenge ! Whatever his degree of guilt
had been, this man had been her husband's evil angel ; he h^
put him in the way which had led him to his destruction — with
how much or how little guilt who could say 1 And Helen
looked over the bright scene — ^the dancers on the grass, the
groups standing round, the autumn trees dressed out in all
their beauty, like their human brethren — and suddenly saw, or
thought she saw, that she had the happiness of her adversary's
home in her hand. Little Norah, all unaware of her tragic task,
was the Nemesis who was to accomplish their overthrow.
There was Ned, heart-broken but, defiant — Ned whom she had
seen watching all day, miserable as youth only is ; and Clara,
furious, making a show of herself in her passion. Was it the
sin of the father that was being visited on the children 1 He-
len's heart gave one loud, angry throb ; the time of her temp-
tation had come. She did not use the word revenge ; all that
was brought before her in the sudden tumult of her thoughts
waspunisnment — ^retribution for sin.

While this terrible suggestion flashed into Helen's mind and
took sudden possession of it, another ideahad begun to germinate
in another bosom, which was to bear fruit also. Dr. Maurice
went to see the Haldanes, and had a great deal of conversation
with them. This conversation ran chiefly upon the ohe subject
in which they were so much interested — " the child." From
them he learnt that Norah had " come out," that she had made

A7 JBI8 OJ^TBB.

«PS^.

a grehi success, that everybody (to wit the Daltons) were raving
of her prettines^s and sprightliness, and how much admired she
was ; and that since the ball Cyril Rivers had ** never been out
of the house."

" Find out what sort of fbllow he is, Maurice/' said Stephen
Haldane ; " it ^vould b( hard to see our little Norah throw her-
self awav. I thought it would have been Ned."

,,"Neal Ned! Burton's son — a mere City fellow! Grood
heavens ! has it come to that 1" said Dr. Maurice.

He left the Gatehouse, and walked slowly to the station, and
went home just about the time when the dance began on the
green. " The child wants some one to take care of her," he
said over and over again to himself. When he got home he
went over all his house, and looked at it with a haUf comic half
puzzled look. The idea perhaps had gleamed across his mind
before ; it was an idea he did not half like. It would be a
trouble to him — more trouble than anybody could imagine.
But still if such a sacrifice should be necessary — for Norah'a
sake !

I" 111

: I i, ; 'i i

304

AT HIS OATBB.

'l!|f

■Ju

CHAPTER XXXI.

^HE thought of revenge which had thus entered Helen's
mind might have died out of it naturally, or it might
have been overcome by better thoughts. All the passion
and conflict of her life had died into stiuness ; six years had
come and gone since the great storm had passed over her,
which had changed her existence, and though that had not
come to any satisfactory conclusion, but only raged itself out,
leaving germs that might grow into tumultuous iifo again — so
long an interval of quiet had buried these germs very deep.
She had grown tranquil in spite of herself ; the calm routine of
her life had taken hold upon her, and she had made that change
which is so imperceptible while in progress, so real and all-influ-
encing when once accomplished — the change which steals away
the incGviduality of existence, and introduces that life by proxy,
to which we all — or at least to which all women — ^must come.
Insensibly, without knowing it, Helen had grafted herseK into
her child. She had lived for Norah, and now she lived in
Norah, regarding the events of the world and the days as they
passed solely in reference to the new creature who had a new
career to weave out of them. This change has a wonderful
effect upon the mind and being. Her sphere of interests was
altered, her hopes and wishes were altered, her very modes of
thought. The gravity of her nature gave way before this
potent influence. Had she been in the way of it, Helen, who
had lived through her own youth with a certain serious dig-
nity, accepting her pleasures as a necessity rather than entering
into them with enthusiasm, would have acquired for herself,
no doubt, the character of a frivolous woman, fond of balls and
gaiety, all because of the gayer temper of her child. She felt
with Norah that thrill of wonder about Cyril Rivers ; her own
heart began to beat a little quicker when she heard him coming,
a reflection of Norah's blush passed over her. She had to make
an effort now and then not to be altogether carried away by
this strange entry she had made into another nature i for Norah

AT HtS OATEa

305

ler own

was not like her mother in nature ; training and constant asso-
ciation had made them alike, and it was quite possible that
Norah in later life might become Helen, as Helen for the
moment had become Norah. But this wondrous double life
that ebbs and flows from one heart to another as from one
vessel to another — ^the same blood, the same soul — is not very
expUcable in words. It was only when Helen sat, as she did
at the moment we are now describing, all by herself over her
little fire, and felt the silence around her, and realized her own
individuality separate from the rest of the world, that the old
strain of her thoughts came back to her, and for half an hour
at a time she became herself once more.

It was a month after the day of the pic-nic. The guests at
Dura had departed, or rather had been succeeded by new ones,
of whom the Drummonds knew nothing. A breach had been
made between the great house and the village — a breach which
the Daltons murmured and wondered at, but which no one at-
tributed distinctly to its true cause. That cause, Mrs. Drum-
mond knew very well, was Norah. They had been invited
once more to Dura after the pic-nic, and Mr. Rivers once more
had constituted himself their attendant. By this time all other
motives except one had ceased to influence the young man.
He had ceased to think of the Burtons' claims or of Clara's fury
— things which, no doubt, had at first made the pursuit of
Norah piquant and attractive to him. What he thought of
now was Norah herself. He had no intention of commiting
himself — no thought of compromising his future by a foolish
match ; but he fell in love— he could not help it. It is a thing
which men of the best principles, men incapable of ruining
themselves by an absurd marriage, will nevertheless do from
time to time. How ho should get out of it he did not know,
and when he ventured to think at all, he was very sorry for
himself for the fatality which made Norah impossible. But
impossible or not, this was what had happened to him ; he had
fallen in love. The sensation itself was sweet ; and Clara's per-
petual angry pout, her flash of wrath when he approached No-
rah, her impatient exclamation at the sound of her name,
amused him immensely, and at the same time flattered his
vanity. So did Ned's lowering brows and unhappy looks. Mr
Rivers was tickled with his own position, flattered and amused
T

! i:^i^^

. ,1, .
fi:

! ■

:;ii;i

306

AT HIS GATES.

by the effect his erratic proceedings had produced. And he

had fallen in love. I am sorry to say that Mrs. Drummond

encouraged him on that evening which she and her daughter

had spent at Dura after the pic-nic. She waved him, as it were,

in the faces of the Burtons like a flag of triumph. She took

pleasure in Ned's misery, though she liked Ned — and in ^ Clara s

wrath. They had scorned her child ; but her child was able

to turn all their plans to concision, and break up their most

skilful combinations. Norah was the queen of the moment,

and the others were crushed under her little foot. She was

able to make Ned's life a burden to him and destroy Clara's

prospects. I am very sorry to have to say this of Helen ; but

I have never set her up as possessing the highest type of

character, and it was true.

She was heartily sorry for it afterwards, however, it must
be added. When she got home she felt ashamed, but ratl^er
for having done something that did not come up to her own
ideal of womanly or lady-like behaviour than for the pain she
had helped to inflict. Even while she was sorry for having
" encouraged " (women are so conscious of all that word means)
Mr. Rivers, she was not sorry for Ned's despair, which rather
amused her — ^nor for Clara's fury, which made her so angry
that she would have liked to whip Clara. She was only
ashamed of the deed ; she did not dislike the results. Norah,
as so often happens, did not know half, nor nearly half, of
what it all meant. She was flattered by Mr. E,ivers's atten-
tion ; she admired him, she liked him. He was the hero, and
he had taken her for his heroine. The thought entranced her
girlish fancy, and seduced her into a thousand dreams. She
wondered would he " speak " to her, and what should she an-
swer him. She framed pictures to herself of how he shou^c!
be brought to the very verge of that " speaking," and then l;y
chance prevented and sent away, and longing and anxious,
while Norah herself would get a respite. She imagined the
most touching scenes — how somebody unknown would be found
to watch over her, to bring wonderful good fortune to her, to
be at hand when she was in any danger, to save her life, and
perform all kinds of wonders ; and how at last, suddenly turn-
ing upon this anonymous guardian angel, she should find that
it was he. £ver3rthing that a true knight had ever done for

AT HIS GATES.

307

his lady she dreamt of having done fur her, and a sweet exulta-
tion, a grateful sense of her own humility and yet grandeur would
fill her foolish little mind. But still, even in her fancy, Norah
held as far oflf as possible the inevitable response. No lady, of
course, could accept such devotion without sooner or later be-
stowing the reward ; but the devotion, and not the reward,
was the thing it pleased her to contemplate. It surrounded
with a halo of glory not only herself, the recipient, but even in
a higher degree the man who was capable of bestowing such
exquisite, and delicate, and generous service. Such are the
fantastic fancies of a girl when she finds herself wafted into
the land of old romance by the astounding, delicious, incom-
prehensible discovery that some one has fallen in love with
her. She was not in the very least in love with him.

All this is a long way from the November evening when
Helen sat over her fire, and became for the periodical half-hour
herself, and not simply Norah's mother. Thinking it all over,
she blushed a little over her own conduct. Mr. Rivers had left
Dura, but he kept writing to her on one absurd pretext after
another. Mrs. Drummond had answered very briefly one of
these notes, and she was taking herself to task for it now.
Was she right to " encourage " Cyril Rivers t It had punished
the Burtons, and she was not sorry for that. But was such a
mode of revenge permissible 1 Was it consistent with her
own dignity, or such a thing as ought to be 1 Susan had not
yet brought in the lamp, and she was sitting in the ruddy dark-
ness, scarcely illuminated, yet made rosy by the brilliant not-
flaming redness of the fire. Norah even now, would have
been frightened to sit so in that haunted room ; but it was
Lot haunted to Helen. It was a clear, moonlight evening out
of doors, and the thin long lines of window at the other end
of the room let in each a strip of dark wintry blue between
the brown-grey curtains. This cold light, and the ruddy, sup-
pressed glow of the fire, balanced each other, holding each their
own half of the room like two armies, of which the red one
made continual sorties upon the realm of the other, and the blue
stood fast without a movement. It was a curious little inte-
rior, but Helen did not see it. She sat, as thoughtful people
80 often sit, with her eyes fixed upon the red glow of the em-
bers. In a variation of the same attitude, half visible as the

308

AT HtS aATES.

I i

light rose and fell, like a spell-bound woman, her image shone
in the round mirror.

Norah was at the Rectory spending the evening, and Norah's
mother had changed into Helen herself, and not another. How
many old thoughts came and went through her mind it is
needless to say ; but they resolved themselves into this, that
she had sacrificed her own dignity, that what she was doing
was not the thing she ought to. What was the punishment
of the Burtons to her ? Why should she like to f *' ve a heart-
ache to a boy and girl who had done her no harm ? It was to
get at their father, and give him a stab through their means ;
but was that a kind of warfare for a woman — a lady ? Helen
started in the dark, though no one could see her. She had a
high, almost fantastic, sense of honour and generosity, yet in
this she was sacrificing both. i

I do not know what impulse it was which made her, when
the fire began to burn low and wanted refreshment, to go to
the window and look out — no reason in particular — because it
was a beautiful night. She stood looking out on the moon-
light, on the silent countrj'' road, and the lively lights which
shone in the Rectory windows opposite. She had rung for the
lamp ; she was going to have her woman's meal, her cup of tea,
in the solitude which was not grievous, for to be sure it would
last but an hour or two. On the table there was a basket full
of work, some dressmaking for Norah, and a novel, for still He-
len loved the novels which took her into other lives. All these
placid details gave an air of profoundest peace to the scene, and
the white, clear moonlight shone outside, and the stars, sharpened
and brightened by frost, fluttered as if they had wings or a heart
that throbbed, out of the blue of the sky ; when suddenly
the place became clamorous, the silence fled, the echoes carried
circles of sound all over the unseen country. Mr. Burton was
coming home. A slight smile came upon Helen's face. All
this ostentation and noise of wealth did not irritate her as it
used to do. The phaeton came dashing along, and paused a
moment at the corner, where Williams's shop threw out a
stream of illumination. Some one else sat by Mr. Burton's
side — some one who suddenly, as they passed, turned his face
full into the light.

In a moment Helen's heart had begun to beat like an engine

AT HIS GATES.

309

suddenly set in motion ; the blood mounted up into her ears,
to her heart, like its moving wheels and piston. She clenched her
hand, and a sudden demon seemed to wake up and come into
existence all in a moment. It was the man whom she believed
to be her husband's murderer — the destroyer of her own hap-
piness and of Robert's good name. She stood as if spell-
bound while they drove past the window, laughJng and talking.
Nay, there was even a half pause, and Mr. Burton made some
explanation, and pointed to the Gatehouse, not seeing the se-
cret spectator. She heard the sound of their voices — the
laugh ; and clenched her hands tighter, and through her mind
there passed words which a woman should not say.

It was then that Susan came into the room with the lamp.
When she had set it down on the table, and turned to close
the window, it startled her to see where Helen was standing.
Susan uttered an exclamation ; it gave her " a turn ;" and she
had a still greater turn when she perceived the change in Mrs.
Drummond's face. But for the moment she did not ssay any-
thing. It was only when she had arranged the tea and put
everj'^thing ready that she ventured to look again, and en-
countered Helen's eyes, which were fixed, and did not see her.

" Lord bless us ! " said Susan, " if something has happened ;
'm, don't look dreadful like that, but say it out."

Helen woke up at the sound of her voice. She tried to
smile and clear her countenance.

" Nothing has happened," she said : and it startled her to
find how hoarse she was. " I was thinking only about old
times."

" That comes o' Miss Norah being out to tea," said Susan.
" I'd think of old times fast enough if I could do any good.
But what's the use ? Thinking and thinking only moiders a
body's brain. I've give it up for my part."

" It is the wisest way," said Helen, trying to smile.

" Shall I ask Miss Jane to come and stay with you a bit 1
or shall I run for Miss Norah ? " asked Susan, who wa» practi-
cal-minded, and felt that some thing ought to be done.

" Never mind, Susan. It is very kind of you to think of
me. It will pass over directly," said Helen ; and she was so
decided and imperative that Susan was forced to yield.

When she was gone, Mrs Drummond rose and walked about

I M •

310

AT HIS GATES.

the room with hasty, tremulous steps. She was not sick nor
sorry, as the woman thought, but burning with wild indig-
nation, sudden rage. Her better feelings were overwhelmed
by the tide of passion that rushed into her mind " Golden
and Burton ! Golden and Burton ! " When she had lAst re-
peated these words, she had felt herself powerless, helpless,
unable to inflict any punishment upon them, compelled to sub-
side into silence, knowing that neither her voice nor anything
she could do would reach them. It was different now, she
said to herself, with fierce satisfaction. Now she had indeed
some^hing in her power ; now she could indeed reach the very
heart of one of them. Her cheek glowed, her eyes blazed in
her solitude. She would do it. She would abstract Mr. Riv-
ers from them utterly, and she would break the heart of their
boy. She seemed to hold it in her hand, and crush it, as she
pursued these thoughts. This was the horrible effect produced
upon a reasonable woman by the appearance of a man who
had wronged her. It is not easy to bear the seeming prosperity
of the wicked. He had taken from Helen all, except Norah,
that made life worth having, and he himself had appeared to
her full of jovial talk and laughter, going to visit at Dura, evi-
dently a favoured guest. The difficulty was one which David
felt even more deeply, and has argued with himself upon in
many a strain which religion has made familiar to us as the air
we breathe. In the Psalms it is never said that it is wrong to
chafe at the prosperity of evil-doers, but only that that pros-
perity is short-lived, and that ruin is coming. When Helen
suddenly saw her enemy, the wicked man par excellencef the
incarnation of wrong and cruelty, flourishing like the green
bay-tree, gay and confident as he had always been, it was not
wonderful if she took the Old Testament rather than the New
for her guide. The only strange thing was, that with the
curious inconsistency of human nature, she grasped the weapon
that she had suddenly found at her side, tc strike, not him, but
his companion. Golden and Burton ! Once more' they had
become one to her ; her enemies — the incarnation of murder,
slander, and wrong !

" Mamma, Ned has walked across with me," said Norah,
running in all fresh from the outer air, with a red hood over
her brown hair. " May I ask him to come in ? He looks so
unhappy, mamma."

AT HIS GATES.

811

" I don't see that we have anything to do with his unhappi-
ness/' said Helen ; but already he was standing at the door,
looking in very wistfully. Norah was rather wistful too ; her
heart was relenting over her old vassal; and now there was no
Mr. Rivers in the way to take possession of her, and come be-
tween her and the looks of others.

Ned came in with very doubtful step, not knowing whether
to be frightened or glad. He was not afraid of Mrs. Drum-
mond ; she had never been unkind to him, and there seemed a
possibility now that his misery might be over, aiid that Norah
might relent. But it was a shock to Ned to find that she did
not offer him her hand, but only bowed stijQSy, and began to
speak to her daughter.

*^ You are early to-night," she said. " I did not expect you
so soon."

" Oh, mamma, soon ! Why, it is eleven ; and you have the
tea-things still on the table. Mamma, I shall never be able to
go anywhere, if you behave so. You have not. had any
tea."

" I have not wanted it. I did not observe that it was there,"
said Helen, seating herself on her former seat by the fire. Tn
doing this, she turned her back upon Ned, who, startled and
wounded, did not know what to do. Norah was alarmed too.
She made a sign to him to sit down, and then went to her
mother, taking her hand,

** Mamma, you are not well," she said.

" I a.m quite well. I fear, however, I shall not be good com-
pany for — Mr. Burton to-night."

" Mamma ! Why it is only Ned ! "

" He is Mr. Burton's son," said Helen, trembling with emo-
tion. ** Norah, do you remember the man who murdered your
fathei , and tried to disgrace him — Golden — (hat man 1 Well,
I have just seen him drive up with Mr. Burton to Dura. They
paused, and pointed out this house to each other- -the place
where their victims were living. You may understand why I
am not fit company for — Mr. Burton to-night."

" Oh, my poor, dear mother ? have you had this to bear,
with no one to support you 1 I will never go out and leave
you again.'^

" The sight of his face is like a curse to me," said Helen,

812

AT HIS OATES.

sci^rcely knowing what ghe said. '' I have had as much as I
can bear for one night."

''Yes, dear mamma, so you have," said soothing Norah.
And then behind her mother's back she made an imperative
sign to poor Ned, whispering, " Go awav ; go away 1"

He stumbled up to his feet, poor fellow ! so dreadfully dis-
appointed that he could scarcely find voice enough to speak.
But yet his instinct was to strike one blow in self-defence.

" Mrs. Drummond," he said, clearing his voice, " I don't
know much about Mr. Golden ; but if he is such a man as you
say, my father must be deceived ; and I have nothing at all to
do with it. Is it fair to punish me ?"

" Oh, your father ! " said Helen, facing suddenly round upnon
him, with a flush on her face and the tremulous movement W
passion in all her frame. If she had not been so agitated, she
would not have spoken so, let us hope, to the man's son.
" Your father is not deceived. I don't say you know. But
you are his son."

" Good evening, Norah ! " said Ned ; he crushed his hat be-
tween his hands, and went straight out without another word.
What a change from the hopeful spirit in which he had crossed
the threshold two minutes before ! But like many a man who
makes an abrupt retreat, Ned found he fared the worse for his
impetuosity when he had got outside. He might have stayed
and asked some questions about it, fathomed it somehow, tried
to discover what was the meaning of it. He walked up the
avenue, upon which the moon was shining bright, so confused
and troubled that he could not tell certainly which was the
cloud floating along at a breakneck pace before the wind and
which the true shadows, themselves immovable, which his rapid
progress made almost as wildly fugitive. He thought he had
been on the eve of renewed happiness, and lo ! now he found
himself pushed further off" than ever ; repulsed, he could not
tell how. A tide of wild fancy rushed through his mind, carry-
ing a hundred thoughts upon it as the wind carried the cloud.
Sometimes it was the image of Mrs. Drummond which was up-
permost, sometimes a wondering puzzled question about his
father, sometimes the name of Golden. He remembered dimly
he trial and the comments upon the latter, and how his own
oung mind had glowed half with indignation, half with sym-

AT HIS GATES.

313

pathy. He was better able to judge now ; but Helen's lan-
guage sounded violent and exaggerated to him. " The man
who murdered your father " — " the sight of his face is like a
curse." What language was this for any one in their senses to
usel

A stormy night with a full moon is perhaps the most drama-
tic spectacle in nature. The world was flooded with light as
Ned, a dark speck in all that whiteness, came out into the
open lawns amid which his father's house stood. The wind
was driving the clouds across the clear blue at such a desperate
pace as might become the pursued and terrified stragglers of a
great army ; and the army itself, piled up in dark confused
masses in the north, loomed behind the house of Dura, which
was inundated by the white radiance. These angry forces
were turning to bay, heaping themselves in a threatening mass,
glooming in silent opposition to all the splendour and ^ory of
the li^ht. Ned's heart was so sick and sore that he gazed at
this sight with unusual force of fancy, wondering if it could
mean anything ] The moon and the wind were doing all they
could to disperse these vapours ; they were driven back upon
each other, heaped up in masses, pursued oflf the face of the
sky, which over Ned's head was blue and clear as a summer
noon. But yet the clouds gathered, held together, stood, as it
were, at bay. Did it mean anything ? Was that storm about
to burst over the house, which stood so tranquilly, whitened
over by the moon, below. This was what Ned asked himself
(though he was not usually imaginative) as he went in with an
ache in his heart to his father's house.

', ""I

AT HIS OATES.

111

t^l

hi '

III

if I

[1 11

i!ii i

CHAPTER XXXII.

I HE drawing-room within was very dififerent from the wild
conflict of light and darkness outside. There was
music going on at one end, some people were reading,
some talking. There were flirtations in hand, and grave dis-
cussions. In short, the evening was being spent as people are
apt to spend the evening when there is nothing particular go-
ing on. There had been a good deal of private yawning and
inspection of watches throughout the evening, and some of the
party had already gone to bed, or rather to their rooms, where
they could indulge in the happiness of fancying themselves
somewhere else — an amusement which is very popular and ge-
neral in a country house.

But seated in an easy-chair by the fire was a tall man, care-
fully dressed, with diamond slikds in his shirt, and a toilette
which, though subdued in tone as a gentleman's evening dress
must be, was yet too elaborate for the occasion. The fact that
this new guest was a stranger to him, and that his father was
seated by him in close conversation, made it at once apparent to
Ned that it must be Golden. Clara was close to them listening
with a look of eager interest to all they said. These three
made a little detached group by one side of the fire. At the
other corner sat Mrs. Burton, with her little feet on a footstool,
as near as possible to the fender. She had just said good night
to the dignified members of the party, the people who had to
be considered ; the others who remained were mere young
people, about whose proceedings she did not concern herself.
She was taking no part in the talk at the other side of the fire.
She sat and warmed her little toes and pondered ; her vivid
little mind astir and working, but uninfluenced by, and some-
what contemptuous of, what was going on around : and her
chilly little person basking in the ruddy warmth of the fire.

Ned came up and stood by her when he came in. No one
took any notice of him, the few persons who remained in the
room having other affairs in hand, Ned was fond of his

AT HIS GATES.

315

mother, thoush she had never shown any fondness for
him. She had done all for him which mere intellect could do.
She had been very just to the boy all his life ; when he got
into scrapes, as boys will, she had not backed him up emotion-
ally, it is true, but she had f<aken all the circumstances into
account, and had not judged lim harshly. She had been tole-
rant when his father was harsh. She had never lost her tem-
per. He had always felt that he could appeal to her sense of
justice — to her calm and impartial reason. This is not much like
the confidence with which a boy generally throws himself upon
his mother's sympathy, yet it was a great deal in Ned's case.
And accordingly he loved his mother. Mrs. Burton, too, loved
him perhaps more than she loved any one. She was doing
her best to break his heart ; but that is not at all uncommon
even when parents and children adore each other. And then
Ned was not aware that his mother had any share intentionally
or otherwise in the cruel treatment he had received.
'' Who is that ? " he asked under his breath.
" A Mr. Golden, a friend of your father's," said Mrs. Bur-
on, lifting her eyes and turning them calmly upon the person
she named. There was no feeling in them of one kind or an-
other, and yet Ned felt that she at least did not admire Mr.
Golden, and it was a comfort to him. He went forward to
the fire, and placed himself, as an Englishman loves to do, in
front of it. He stood there for ten minutes or so, paying no
particular attention to the conversation on his right hand. His
father, however, looked more animated than he had done for
a long time, and Clara was bending forward with a faint rose-
tint from the fire tinging the whiteness of her forehead and
throat, and deeper roses glowing on her cheeks. Her blue
eyes were following Mr Golden's movements as he spoke, her
hair was shining like crisp gold in the light. She was such
a study of colour, of splendid flesh and blood, as Rubens would
have worshipped ; and Mr. Golden had discrimination enough
to peftjeive it. He stopped to address himself to Clara. He
turned to her, and gave her looks of admiration, for which her
brother, bitterly enough biassed against him on his own ac-
count, could have " throttled the fellow ! " Ned grew more
and more wrathful as he looked on. And in the meantime the
late young ladies came fluttering to say good night to their

•mt'-.'kmi!*e>»mr^mmmmmi»-

316

AT HIS GATES.

hostess j the young men went off to the smoking-room, where
Ned knew he ought to accompany them, but did not, being too
fully occupied ; and thus the family were left alone. Notwith-
standing, nowever, his wrath and his curiosity, it was only the
sound of one name which suddenly made the conversation by
his side quite articulate and intelligible to Ned.

" I hear the Drummond has a pretty daughter ; that is a
new weapon for her. Burton. I wonder you venture to have
such a family established at your gates."

" The daughter is not particularly pretty ; not so pretty by
a long way as Helen was," said Mr Burton. " I don't see
what harm she can do with poor little Norah. We are not
afraid of her, Clara, are we ? " and he looked admiringly at his
daughter, and laughed.

As for Clara she grew crimson. She was not a girl of much
feeling, but still there was something of the woman in her.

" I don't understand how we could be supposed to be afraid
for Norah Drummond," she said.

" But I assure you I do," said Mr. Golden. *' Pardon me,
but I don't suppose you have seen the Drummond herself, the
Drummond mamma — in a fury."

" Father," said Ned, " is Mr. Golden aware that the lady
he is speaking of is our relation — and friend ? Do you mean
to suffer her to be so spoken of in your house 1 "

" Hold your tongue, Ned."

" Ned, to be sure it is Ned. Why, my boy, you have grown
out of all recollection," said Golden, jumping up with a great
show of cordiality, and holding out his hand.

Ned bowed, and drew a step nearer his mother. He had his
bands in his pockets ; there were times, no doubt, when his
manners left a great deal to be desired.

" Ah, I see ! there arc spells," said Mr Golden, and he took
his seat with a hearty laugh — a laugh so hearty that there
seemed just a possibility of strain and forced merriment in it.
"My dear Miss Burton," he said, in an undertone, •yhich
however Ned could hear, " didn't I tell you there was danger 1
Here's an example for you sooner than I thought."

" Mother," said Ned, " can I get your candle 1 I am sure
it is time for you to go up-stairs."

'* Yes, and for Clara too. Run away, child, and take care of

I \

AT BtS GATES.

317

your roses ; Golden and I have some business to talk over ;
run away. As for you, Ned, to-morrow morning I shall have
something to say to you."

* Very well, sir," said Ned solemnly.

He lighted his mother's candle, and he gave her his arm,
having made up his mind not to let her go. The sounds of
laughter which came faintly from the smoking-room did not
tempt him ; if truth must be told, they tempted Clara much
more, who stood for a moment with her candle in her hand,
and said to herself, " What fun they must be having ! " and
fretted against the feminine fetters which bound her. Such a
thought would not have come into Norah's head, nor into Katie
Dalton's, nor even into that of Lady Florizel, thoujgh it was a
foolish little head enough ; but Clara, who was all flesh and
blood, and had been badly brought up, was the one of those
four girls who probably would have impressed most deeply a
journalist's fancy as illustrating the social problem of English
young womanhood.

Ned led his mother not to her own room, but to his. He
made her come in and placed a chair for her before the fire.
It is piobable that he had sense enough to feel that had he
asked her consent to his marriage with Norah Drummond he
would have found difficulties in his way ; but short of this, he
had full confidence in the justice which indeed he never had
any reason to doubt.

" Do you like this mai Golden, mother," he asked. " Tell
me what is his connection with us ] "

" His connection is, I suppose, a business connection with
your father," said Mrs. Burton. " For the rest, I neither like
him nor dislike him. He is well enough, 1 suppose, in his
way."

" Mrs. Drummond does not think so," said Ned.

" Ah, Mrs. Drummond ! She is a woman of what are called
strong feelings. I don't suppose she ever stopped to inquire
into the motives of anybody who went against her in her life.
She jumps at a contlnsion, and reaches it always from her own
point of view. According to her view of affairs, I don't won-
der, with her disposition, that she should hate him."

" Why, mother 1 "

" Well, said Mrs. Burton, " I am not in the habit of using

At His OAfllS.

li fiP
tn

words which would come naturally to a mind like Mrs. Drum-
mond's. But from her point of view, I should say, she m,U8t
believe that he ruined her husband — drove him to suicide, and
then did all he could to ruin his reputation. These are things,
I allow, which people do not readily forget."

" And, mother, do you believe aU this ? Is it true V
" I state it in a different way," she said. " Mr. Golden, I
suppose, thought the business could be redeemed, to start with.
When he drew poor Mr. Drummond into active work in the
concern, he did it in a moment when there was nobody else to
refer to. And then you must remember, Ned, that Mr. Drum-
mond had enjoyed a good deal of profit, and had as much right
as any of the others to suffer in the loss. He was ignorant of
business, to be sure, and did not know what he was doing ; but
then an ignorant man has no right to go into business. Mr. Gol-
den is very sharp, and he had to preserve himself if he could. It
was quite natural he should take advantage of the other's fool-
ishness. And then I don't suppose he ever imagined that poor
Mr. Drummond would commit suicide. He himself would
never havedoneit under similar circumstances — nor your father."

" Had my father anything to do with this 1 " said Ned
hoarsely.

" That is not the question," said Mrs. Burton. " But neither
the one nor the other would have done any thing so foolish.
How were they to suppose Mr. Drummond would ? This sort
of thing requires a power of realising other people's ways of
thinking which few possess, Ned. After he was dead, and it
could not be helped, I don't find anything surprising," she went
on, putting her feet nearer the fire, "in the fact that Mr.
Golden turned it to his advantage. It could not hurt Drum-
mond any more, you know. Of course, it hurt his wife's feelings ;
but I am not clear how far Golden was called upon to consider
the feelings of Drummond's wife. It was a question of life and
death for himself. Of course, I do not believe for a moment,
and I don't suppose anybody whose opinion is worth consider-
ing, could believe that a poor, innocent, silly mah destroyed
those books "

" Mother I don't know what you are speaking of; but it
seems to me as if you were describing the most devilish piece
of villany "

At HIS GATES.

di9

" People do employ such words, no doubt," saidjMrs. Burton
calmly ; " I don't myself. But if that is how it appears to your
mind, you are right enough to express yourself so. Of course,
that is Mrs. Drummond's opinion. I have something to say to
you about the Drummonds, Ned."

" One moment, mother," he cried, with a tremor and heat of
excitement which puzzled her perhaps more than anything she
had yet met with in the matter. For why should Ned be dis-
turbed by a thing which did not concern him, and which had
happened so long ago 1 " You have mentioned my father.

You have said theyf speaking of this man's infamous ^Was

my father concerned V*

Mrs. Burton turned, and looked her son in the face. The
smallest little ghost of agitation — a shadow so faint that it
would not have showed upon any other face — ^glided over hers.

" That is just the point on which I can give you least infor-
mation," she said ; and then, after a pause, " Ned," she
continued, " you are grown up ; you are capable of judging for
yourself. I tell you I don't know. I am not often deterred by
any cause from following out a question I am interested in ;
but I have preferred not to follow up this. I put away
all the papers, thinking I might some day care to go into
it more deeply. You can have them if you like. To tell
the truth, she added, sinking her voice, betrayed into a degree
of confidence which, perhaps, she had never given to human
creature before, *^ I think it is a bad sign that this man has
come back."

" A sign of what 1"

Mrs. Burton's agitation increased. Though it was the very
slightest of agitations, it startled Ned, so unlike was it to his
mother."

" Ned," she said, with a shiver that might be partly cold,
" nobody that I ever heard of is so strong as their own princi
pies. I do not know, if it came to me to have to bear it~
whether I could bear ruin and disgrace." >

" Kuin and disgrace !" cried Ned.

" I don't know if I have fortitude enough. Perhaps I could
by myself ; I should feel that it was brought about by natural
means, and that blame was useless and foolish. But if we had
to bear the comments in the newspapers, the a k of very body

320

AT His GATfiS.

illiiilli

ili|

the reflections on our past, I don't know whether I have fortitude
to bear it ; I feel as if I could not."

" Mother, has this been in your mind, while I have been
thinking you took so little interest 1 My poor little mamma !"

The wicked little woman ! And yet all that she had been
saying was perfectly true.

" Ned," she said, with great seriousness, " this dread, which
I can never get quite out of my mind, is the reason why I have
been so very earnest about the Merewethers. I have never,
you know, supported your father's wish that you should go into
the business. On the contrary, I have always endeavoured to
secure you your own career. I have wished that you at least
should be safe "

" Safe !" he cried. " Mother, if there is a possibility of
disgrace, how can I, how can any of us, escape from it — and
more especially 1 1 And if there is a chance of ruin, why I
should be as great a villain as that man is, should I consent to
carry it into another house."

** It is quite a different case," she cried, with some eagerness,
seeing she had overshot her mark. " I hope there will be
neither ; and you have not the least reason to suppose that
either is possible. Look round you ; go with your father to the
oflB^ce, inspect his concerns as much as you please ; you will see
nothing but evidences of prosperity. So far as you know, or
can know, your father is one of the most prosperous men in
England. Nobody would have a word to say against you, and
I shall be rich enough to provide for you. If there is any
down-fall at all, which I do not expect, nobody would ever
imagine for a moment that you knew anything of it ; and your
career and your comfort would be safe."

" mother ! mother !" Poor Ned turned away from her
and hid his face in his hands. This was worse to him than all
the rest.

" You ought to think it over most carefully," she said ; " all
this is perfectly clear before you. I may have taken fright,
though it is not very like me. I may be fanciful enough" (Mrs.
Burton smiled at herself, and even Ned in his misery half
smiled) " to consider this man as a sort of raven, boding mis-
fortune. But you know nothing about it ; there is abundant
time for you to save yourself and your credit ; and this is the

JLT HIS OAT£S.

321

wish which, above everything in the world, I have most at
heart, that, if there is going to be any disaster — I don't expect
it, I don't believe in it ; but mercantile men are always subject
to misfortune — ^you might at least be safe. I will not say any-
thing more about it to-night ; but think it over, Ned."

She rose as she spoke and cook up her candle, and her son
bent over her and touched her little cold face with his hot lips.
" I will send you the papers," she said as she went away.
Strange little shadow of a mother ! She glided along the pas-
sage, not without a certain maternal sentiment — a feeling that
that on the whole she was doing what was best for her boy.
She could provide for him, whatever happened ; and if evil came •
he might so manage as to thrust himself out from under the
shadow of the evil. She was a curious problem, this woman ;
she could enter into Mr. Golden's state of mind, but not into
her son's. She could fathom those struggles of self-preservation
which might lead a man into fraud and robbery ; but she could
not enter into those which tore a generous, sensitive, honour-
able soul in pieces. She was an analyst, with the lowest view
of human nature, and not a sympathetic being entering into the
hearts of others by means of her own.

No smoking-room, no jovial midnight party, received Ned that
night. He sat up till the slow November morning dawned
reading those papers ; and then he threw himself on his bed,
and hid his face from the cold increasing light. A bitterness
which he could not put into words, which even to himself it
was impossible to explain, filled his heart. There was nothing,
or at least very little, about his father in these papers. There was
no accusation made against Mr. Burton, nothing that any one
could take hold of— only here and there a word of ominous
suggestion which chilled the blood in his veins. But Golden's
character was not spared by any one ; it came out iu all its
blackness, more distinct even than it could have done at the
moment these events occurred. Men had read the story at the
time with their minds full of foregone conclusions on the subject
— of prejudices and the heat of personal feeling. But to Ned
it was history ; and as he read, Golden's character stood out be-
fore him as in a picture. And this man, this deliberate cold-
blooded scoundrel was sleeping calmly under his father's roof —
a guest whom his father delighted to honour, Ned groaned
V

322

AT HIS GATES.

and covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the hazy No-
vember morning, as if it were a spy that might find out some-
thing from his haggard countenance. Sleep was far from his
eyes ; his brain buzzed with the unaccustomed crowd of
thoughts that whirled and rustled through it. A hundred
projects, all very practicable at the first glance and impossible
afterwards, flashed before him. The only thing that he never
thought of was that which his mother had called the wish of
her heart — that he should escape and secure his own career out
of the possible fate that might be impending. This, of all pro-
jects, was the only one which, first and last, was impossible to
Ned.

The first step which he took in the matter was one strangely
different. He had to go through all the ordinary remarks of
the breakfast-table upon his miserable looks ; but he was too
much agitated to be very well aware what people were saying
to him. He watched anxiously till he saw his father prepare
to leave the house. Fortunately Mr. Golden was not with him.
Mr. Golden was a man of luxury, who breakfasted late, and
had not so much as made his appearance at the hour when Mr.
Burton, who, above eveiything, was a man of business, started
for the station. Ned went out with him, avoiding his mother's
eye. He took from his father's hand a little courier's bag full
of papers which he was taking with him.

" I will carry it for you, sir," he said.

Mr Burton was intensely surprised : the days were long gone
by when Ned would strut by his side, putting out his chest in
imitation of his father.

" Wants some money, I suppose !" Mr. Burton — no longer
the boys proud progenitor, but a wary parent, awake to all the
possible snares and traps which are set for such — said to him-
self.

They had reached the village before Ned had begun to speak
of anything more important than the weather or the game.
Then he broke into his subject quite abruptly. \

"Father," he said, "within the last few days I have been
thinking of a great many things. I have been thinking that
for your only son to set his face against business was hard lines
on you. Will you tell me frankly whether a fellow like me,
j;rained so differently, would be of real use to you 1 Could I

AT HIS GATES.

323

help you to keep things straight, save you from being cheated ?
— do anjrthing for you ] I have changed my ideas on a great
many subjects. This is what I want to know."

" Upon my word a wonderful conversion," said his father
with a laugh ; ** there must be some famous reason for a change
so sudden. Help me to keep things straight !— keep me from being
cheated! You simpleton ! you have at least a capital opinion
of yourself."

" But it was with that idea, I suppose, that you thought of
putting me into the business," said Ned, overcoming with an
eflfort his first boyish impulse of offence.

" Perhaps in the long-run," said Mr. Burton jocularly ; " but
not all at once my fine fellow. Your Greek and your Latin
won't do you much service in the city, my boy. Though you
have taken your degree — and a deuced deal of money that
costs, a great deal more than it's worth — you would have to
begin by singing very small in the office. You would be jun-
ior clerk to begin with at fifty pounds a year. How should
you find that suit your plans, my fine gentleman, Ned? "

"Was that all you intended me for?" asked Ned sternly.
A rigid air and tone was the best mask he could put upon lus
bitter mortification.

"Certainly at first," said Mr. Burton; " but I have changed
my mind altogether on the subject," he added sharply. "I see
that I was altogether deceived in you. You never would be
of any use in business. If you were in Golden's hands, per-
haps — ^but you have let yourself be influenced by some wretched
fool or other."

" Has Mr Golden anything to say to your business ?" asked . ed.

The question took his father by surprise.

"Confound your impudence ! " he cried, after a keen ^ance
at his son and sputter of confused words, which sounded very
much like swearing. " What has given you so sudden an in-
terest in my business, I should like to know ? Do you think I
am too old to manage it for myself?"

" It was the sight of this man, father," said Ned, with boy-
ish simplicity and earnestness, " and the knowledge who he
was. Couldn't I serve you instead of him? I pledge you my
word to give up all that you consider nonsense, to settle stead-
ily to business. I am not a fool, though I am ignorant. And

111

324

AT HIS GATES.

then if I am ignorant, no man could serve you so truly as
your own son would, whose interests are the same as yours
Try me ! I could serve you better than he."

"You preposterous idiot !" cried Mr. Burton, who had made
two or three changes from anger to ridicule while this speech
was being delivered. " You serve me better than Gdlden ! —
Golden, by Jove! And may I ask if I were to accept this
splendid offer of yours, what would you expect as an equiva-
lent 1 My consent to some wretched marriage or other, I sup-
pose, allowance doubled, home provided, and my blessing, eh ?
I suppose that is what you are aiming at. Out with it — ^how
much was the equivalent to be 1

" Nothing," said Ned. He had grown crimson ; his eyes
were cast down, not to betray the feeling in them — a choking
sensation was in his throat. Then he added slowly — "not
even the fifty pounds a year you offered me just now — nothing
but permission to stand by you, to help to keep danger off."

Mr. Burton took the bag roughly out of his hand. " Go
home," he said " you young ass ; and be thankful I don't chas-
tise you for your impudence. Danger ! — I should think you
were the danger if you were not such a fool. Go home ! I
don't desire your further company. A pretty help and defen-
der you would be ! "

And Ned found himself suddenly standing alone outside the
station, his fingers tingling with the roughness with which the
bag had been snatched from him. He stood still for half a
minute, undecided, and then he turned round and strolled list-
lessly back along the street. He was very unhappy. His
father was still his father, though he had begun to distrust,
and had long given over expecting any sympathy from him.
And the generous resolution, which it had cost him so much
pain to make, had not only come to nothing, but had been
trampled under foot with derision. His heart was very sore.
It was a hazy morning, with a frosty, red sun tr3ning hard to
break through the mist ; and everything moved swiftly to re-
sist the cold, and every step rang sharp upon the road ; except
poor Ned's, who had not the heart to do anything but saunter
listlessly and slowly, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes
fixed wistfully upon nothing. Everything in a moment had
become blank to him. He wondered why the people took the

AT HIS GATES.

325

trouble to take off their hats to him — ^to one who was the heir
of misery and perhaps of disgrace and ruin, as his mother had
said. Ruin and disgrace ! What awful words they are when
you come to think of it — dreadful to look forward to, and still
more dreadful to bear if any man could ever realise their ac-
tual arrival to himself !

Norah was standing at the open door of the Gatehouse.
He thought for a moment that he would pass without taking
any notice ; and then it occurred to him in a strange visionary
way that it might be the last time he ahould see her. He stop-
ped, and she said a cold little " Good morning " to him, with-
out even offering her hand. Then a sudden yearning seized
poor Ned.

" Norah," he said, in that listless way, " I wish you would
say something kind to me to-day. I don't know why I should
be so anxious for it, but I think it would do me good. If you
knew how unhappy I am "

** Oh Ned, for heaven's sake don't talk such nonsense," cried
impatient Norah. " You unhappy, that never knew what it
was to have anything go wrong! It makes me quite ill to
hear you. You that have got everything that heart can desire ;
because you can't just exactly have your own way — about —
me — . Oh, go away ; I cannot put up with such nonsense —
and to me, too, that knows what real trouble means ! "

Poor Ned made no protest against this impatient decision.
He put on his hat in a bewildered way, with one long look at
her, and then passed, and disappeared within his father's gates.
Norah did not know what to make of it. She stood at the
door, bewildered too, ready to wave her hand and smile at him
when he looked round ; but he never looked round. He went
on slowly, listlessly, as if he did not care for anything — doing
what both had told him — the father whom he had been willing
to give up his life to — the girl who had his heart.

That afternoon he carried out their commands still more
fully. He went away from his father's house. On a visit, it
was said ; but to go away on a visit in the middle of the shoot-
ing season, when your father's house is full of guests, was, all
the young men thought, the most extraordinary thing which,
even in the freedom of the nineteenth century, an only son,
deputy master of the establishment, had ever been known to do.

:l:ii,i:;

326

AT HIS GATES.

31'

CHAPTER XXXIII.

,T was a long time before it was fully understood in Dura
what had become of Ned. At first it was said he had
^^ gone on a visit, then that he had joined some of his col-
lege friends in an expedition abroad ; but before spring it be-
fan to be fully understood, though nobody could tell how, that
[ed had gone ofif from his home, and that though occasional
letters came from him, his family did not always know where
he was, or what he was about. There was no distinct autho-
rity for this, but the whole neighbourhood became gradually
aware of it. The general idea was that he had gone away be-
cayse Norah Drummond had refused him -, and the consequence
was that Norah Drummond was looked upon with a certain
mixture of disaproval and envy by the youthful community.
The girls felt to their hearts the grandeur of her position.
Some were angry, taking Ned's part, and declaring vehemently
that she had " led him on ; " some were sympathetic, feeling
that poor Norah was to be pitied for the tragical necessity of
dismissing a lover ; but all felt the proud distinction she had
acquired by thus driving a man (they did not say boy) to de-
spair. The boys, for the most part, condemned Ned as a muff —
but in their hearts felt a certain pride in him, as proving that
their side was capable of a great act of decision and despair.
As for Norah, when the news burst upon her, her kind little
heart was broken. She cried till her pretty eyes were like an
old woman's. She gave herself a violent headache, and turned
away from all consolation, and denounced herself as the wickedest
and cruellest of beings. It was natural that Norah should be-
lieve it implicitly. After that scene in the Rectory garden,
when poor Ned, in his boyish passion, had half thrown the re-
sponsibility of his life upon her shoulders, there had\been other
scenes of a not unsimilar kind ; and there was that last meet-
ing at the door of the Gatehouse, when she had dismissed him
so summarily. Oh, if he had only looked round, Norah
thought ; and she remembered^ with a passing gleam of couso*

AT HIS GATES.

327

lation, that she had intended to wave her hand to him. " What
shall I do ? Oh, what shall I do ? " she said, " if— anything
should happen to him, mamma, I shall have killed him ! It
anybody calls me a murderess, I shall not have a word to
say."

" Not so bad as that, my darling," Helen said, soothing her ;
but Helen herself was very deeply moved. This was the re-
venge, the punishment she had dreamt of. By her means,
whom he had injured so deeply, Eeginald Burton's only son
had been driven away from him, and all his hopes and plans
for his boy brought to a sudden end. It was revenge ; but the
revenge was not sweet. Christianity, heaven knows, has not
done all for us which it might have done, but yet it has so far
changed the theories of existence that the vague craving of the
sufferer for punishment to its oppressors give little gratification
when it is fulfilled. Helen was humbled to the dust with re-
morse and compunction for the passing thought, which could
scarcely be called an intention, the momentary, visionary sense
of triumph she had felt in her daughter's power, (as she be-
lieved) to disturb all the plans of the others. Now that was
done which it had given her a vague triumph to think of ; and
though her tears were not so near the surface as Norah's, her
shame and pain were deeper. And this was all the more the
fact because she dared not express it. A word of sympathy
from her (she felt) would have looked like nothing so much as
the waving of a flag of triumph. And, besides, from Ned's
own family there came no word of complaint.

The Dura people put the very best face upon it possible.
Mrs. Burton, who had never been known to show any emotion
in her life, of course, made none of her feelings visible. Her
husband declared that " my young fool of a son " preferred
amusing himself abroad to doing any work at home. Clara
was the only one who betrayed herself. She assured Katie
Dalton, in confidence, that she never could bear to see that
hateful Norah again — that she was sure it was all her fault.
That Ned would never have looked at her had not she every-
thing in her power to " draw him on " — and then cast him off
because somebody better worth having came in her way.
Clara's indignation was sharp and vehement. It was edged
with her own grievance, which she was not too proud to refer

,'sm»''>'!.Tim»'tmi'-imi

328

AT HIS GATES.

to in tenns which could not disguise her feelings. But she was
the only one of her house who allowed that Ned's disappear-
ance had any significance. His mother said nothing at all on
the subject even to her husband and her child ; but in reality
it was the severest blow that fate had ever aimed at her. Her
hopes for his " career " toppled over like a house of cards. The
Merew ethers, astounded at the apology which had to be sent
in reply to their invitation to Ned for Christmas, suddenly
slackened in their friendship. Lady Florizel ceased to write to
Clara, and the Marchioness sent no more notes, weighted with
gilded corontts, to her dear Mrs. Burton. So far as that noble
household was concerned, Ned's prospects had come to an end.
The son of so rich a man, future proprietor of Dura, might have
been accepted had he been on the spot to press his suit ; but
the Ladies Merewether were young and fair, and not so poor as
to be pressed upon any one. So Lady Florizel and the parlia-
mentary influence sunk into the background ; and keenly to
the intellectual machine, which served Mrs. Burton instead of
a heart, went the blow, This was the moment, she felt, in
which Ned could have made himself " safe," and disentangled
himself from the fatal web which instinct told her her husband
was weaving about his feet. There was no confidence on busi-
ness matters between Mr. Burton and his wife ; but a woman
cannot be a man's constant companion for twenty years without
divining him, and understanding, without the aid of words,
something of what is going on in his mind. She had felt, even
before Golden's arrival, a certain vague sense of difficulty and
anxiety. His arrival made her sure of it. He had been abroad,
withdrawn from the observation of English mercantile society
for all these years ; but his talents as the pilot of a ship, des-
perately making way through rocks and sandbanks, were suffi-
ciently well known ; and his appearance was confirmation sure
to Mrs. Burton of all her fears. Thus she felt in her reticent,
silent breast that her boy had thrown up his only chance. The
son of the master of Dura could have done so much — the son
of a bankrupt could do nothing. He might have withdrawn
himself from all risks — established himself in a sure position —
had he taken her advice ; and he had not taken it. It was the
hardest personal blow she had ever received. It did not move
her to tears, as it would have done most women. She had not

AT HIS GATES.

329

that outlet for her sorrow ; but it disarranged the intellectual
machinery for the moment, and made her feel incapable of more
thinking or planning. Even her motherhood had thus its an-
guish, probably as deep an anguish as she was capable of feel-
ing. She was balked once more — her labour was in vain, and
her hopes in vain. She had more mind than all of her family
put together, and she knew it ; but here once more, as so often
m her experience, the fleshly part in which she was so weak,
overrode the mind, and brought its councils to nought. It
would be hard to estimate the kind and degree of suffering
which such a conviction brought.

Time went on, however, as it always does ; stole on, while
people were thinking of other things, discussing Ned's disap-
pearance and Norah s remorse, and Mr. Nicholas's hopes of a
living, and Mary's trousseau. When the first faint glimmer of
the spring began, they had another thing to talk of, which was
that Cyril Rivers had appeared on the scene again, often com-
ing down from London to spend a day, and then so ingratiating
himself with the Rectory people, and even with Nicholas, the
bridegroom; elect, that now and then he was asked to spend a
night. This time, however, he was not invited to the great
house ; neither would Mrs. Drummond ask him, though he was
constantly there. She was determined that nobody should say
she drew him on this time. But the fact was that
Helen's heart was sick of the subject altogether, and that she
would have gone out of her way to avoid any one who had
been connected with the Burtons, or who might be supposed to
minister to that revenge of which she was so bitterly ashamed.
While Cyril Rivers went and came to Dura village, Mr. Golden
became an equally frequent visitor at the House. The city
men in the white villas had been filled with consternation at
the first sight of him ; but latterly began to make stiff returns
to his hearty morning salutations when he went up to town
along with them. It was so long ago ; and nothing positively
had been proved against him ; and it was hard, they said, to
crush a man altogether, who, possibly, was trying to amend his
ways. Perhaps they would have been less charitable had he been
living piywhere else than at the great house. Gradually, how-
ever, his presence became expected in Dura ; he was always
there when there were guests or festivities going on, And

*«)W5w«s^BW*a»»s^»-^ fonv^mimimf!.*'-

• 380

AT HIS GATES.

I ' 1 ..

never had the Burtons been so gay. They seemed to celebrate
their son's departure by a double rush of (Ussipation. The idea
of any trouble being near so pleasant, so bnlliant a place was
ridiculous, and whatever Mrs. Burton's thoughts on the subject
might have been, she said nothing, but sent out her invitations,
and assembled her guests with her usual calm. The Bectory
people were constantly invited, and so indeed were the Drum-
monds, though neither Norah nor her mother had the heart to go.

Things were in this gay and festive state when Mr. Baldwin
suddenly one morning paid his daughter a visit. It was not
one of his usual visits, accompanied by the two aunts, and the
old man-servant and the two maids. These visits had grown
rarer of late. Mrs. Burton had so many guests, and of such
rank, that to arrange the days for her father on which the
minister of the chapel could be asked to dinner, and a plain
joint provided, grew more and more difficult , while the old
people grew more and more alarmed and indignant at the way
Clara was going on. " Her dress alone must cost a fortune,"
her Aunt Louisa said. " And the boy brought up as if he were
a young Lord ; and the girl never to touch a needle nor an ac-
count-book in her life," said Mrs. Everest ; and they all knew
by experience that to " speak to " Clara was quite futile. " She
will take her own way, brother, whatever you say," was the
verdict of both ; and Mr. Baldwin knew it was a true one.
Nevertheless, there came a day when he felt it was his duty to
speak to Clara. '' I have something to say to Haldane ; and
something to arrange with the chapel managers," he said apolo-
getically to his sisters ; and went down all alone, in his black
coat and his white tie with his hat very much on the back of
his head, to his daughter's great house.

** I have got some business with Haldane and with the chapel
managers," he said, repeating his explanation ; " and I thought
as I was here, Clara, I might as well come on and see you."

" You are very welcome always, papa."

" But I don't know if I shall be welcome to-day," he went
on, " because I want to speak to you, Clara." ^^

" I know," she said with a faint smile, " about our extrava-
gance and all that. It is of no use. I may as well say this to
you at once. I cannot stop it if I would ; and I don't know
hat I would stop it if I could."

AT HIS GATES.

331

" Do you know," he said, coming forward to her, and lay-
ing his hand on her shoulder ; for though he wore his hat on
the back of his head, and took the chair at public meetings, he
was a kind man, and loved his only child. " Do you know,
Clara, that in the City — you may despise the City, my dear,
but it is all- important to your husband — do you know they
say Burton is going too fast 1 I wish I could contradict it,
but I can't. They say ho is in a bad way. They say "

" Tell me everything, papa. I am quite able to bear it."

" Well, my dear, I don't want to make you unhappy," said
Mr. Baldwin, drawing a long breath, " but people do begin to
whisper, in the best informed circles, that he is very heavily
involved."

" Well ? " she said, looking up at him. She too drew a
long breath, her face, perhaps, paled by the tenth of the tint.
But her blue eyes looked up undaunted, without a shadow in
them. Her composure, her calm question, drove even Mr.
Baldwin, who was used to his daughter's ways, half out of him-
self

" Well 1 " he cried. " Clara, you must be mad. If this is so,
what can you think of yourself, who never try to restrain or to
remedy 1--who never made an attempt to retrench or save a
penny 1 If your husband has even the slightest shadow of em-
barrassment in his business, is this great, splendid house, full
of guests and entertainments, the way to help him through."

'' It is as good a way as any other," she said, still looking at
him. " Papa, you speak in ignorance of both him and me. I
dofi't know his circumstances ; he does not tell me. It is he
that enjoys all this ; not me. And if he really should be in
danger, I suppose he thinks he had better enjoy it as long as
he can ; and that is my idea too."

" Enjoy it as long as he can ! Spend other people's money
in every kind of folly and extravagance ! " cried Mr Baldwin
aghast. "Clara, you must be mad."

" No, indeed," she said quietly. I am very much in my
senses. I know nothing about other people's money. I can-
not control Mr. Burton in his business, and he does not tell
me. But don't suppose I have not thought this all over. I
have taken every circumstance into consideration, papa, and
every possibility. If we should ever be ruined, we shall have

332

AT HIS GATES.

M !!'

m:^.

ifv".-;

ill;(;iii,-

I 11 !

plenty to bear when that comes. There is Clary to be taken
into consideration too. If there were only two days between
Mr. Burton and bankruptcy I should give a ball on one of
those days, Clary has a right to it. This will be her only
moment if what you say is true."

To describe Mr. Baldwin's consternation, his utter amazement,
the eyes with which he contemplated his child, would be be-
yond my power. He could not, as people say, believe his ears.
It seemed to him as if he must be mistsJ^eUj and that her
words must have some other meaning, which he did not reach.

" Clara," he said, faltering, ** you are beyond me. I hope
you understand yourself — what — ^you mean. It is beyond

me."
"I

understand it perfectly," she said ; and then with a little
change of tone, " You understand, papa, that I would pot
speak so plainly to any one but you. But to you I need not
make any secret. If it comes to the worst. Clary and I — ^Ned
has deserted us — ^will have enough to bear."

** You will always have your settlement, my dear," said her
father, quite cowed and overcome, he could not tell why.

" Yes. I shall have my settlement," she said calmly ; " but
there will be enough to bear."

It was rather a relief to the old man when Clary came in,
before whom nothing more could be said. And ho was glad to
hurry off again, with such astonishment and pain in his heart
as an honest couple mi^ht have felt who had found a perverse
fairy changeling in their child's cradle. He had thought that
he knew his daughter. *' Clara has a cold exterior," he had
said times without number; *'but she has a warm heart."
Had she a heart at alii he asked himself; had she a con-
science 1 What was she ? — a woman or a The old man

could have stopt on the way and wept. He was an honest old
man, and a kind, but what kind of a strange being was this
whom he had nourished so long in his heart 1 It was a relief
to him to get among his chapel managers, and to regulate their
accounts ; and then he took Mr. Truston, the minister, by the arm,
and walked upon him. " Come with me and see Haldane," he
said. Mr. Truston was the same man who had wanted to be
faithful to Stephen about the magazine, but never had ven«
tured upon it yet,

AT ms QATES.

333

'* I am afraid you are ill/' said the minister. " Lean upon
me. If you will come to my house and take a glass of wine."

" No, no ; with my daughter so near I should never be a
charse to the brethren," said Mr. Baldwin. ** And so poor
Haldane gets no better ) It is a terrible burden upon the
congregation in Ormond Road."

" It must be indeed. I am sure they have been very kind ;
many congregations— ^ — ^"

" Many congregations would have thrown oflf the burden ut-
terly ; and I confess since they have heard that he has pub-
lished again, and has been making money by his books ."

^' Ah, yes ; a literary man has such advantages," said the
minister with a sigh.

He did uud want to favour the congregation in Ormond
Koad to the detriment of one of his own cloth ; and at the
same time it was hard to go against Mr. Baldwin, the lay bishop
of the denomination. In this way they came to the Gate-
house. Stephen had his proofs before him, as usual ; but the
pile of manuscripts was of a different complexion. They were
no longer any pleasure to him. The work was still grateful,
such as it was, and the power of doing something ; but to
spend his life recording tea-meetings was hard. He raised his
eyes to welcome his old friend with a certain doubt and almost
alarm. He too knew that he was a burden upon the congrega-
tion in Ormond Boad.

" My dear fellow, my dear Stephen ! '^ the old man said,
very cordially shaking his hand, " why you are looking quite
strong. We shall have him dashing up to Ormond Boad
again, Mrs. Haldane, and giving out his text, before we know
where we are."

Stephen shook his head, with such an attempt at smiling as
was possible. Mr. Baldwin, however, was not so much afraid of
breaking bad news to him as ho had been at the great house.

" It is high time you should,", he continued, rubbing his
hands cheerfully ; " for the friends are falling sadly off. We
want you there, or somebody like you, Haldane. How we are
to meet the expenses next year is more than I can say."

A dead silence followed. Miss Jane, who had been arrang-
ing Stephen's books in the corner, stopped short to listen.
y&^, Haldane put on her spectacles to hear the better : and

aVS«»i(iv,,S|»riji|**ij:.A»;v

dS4

At HtS OATSS.

I #

poor Mr. Truston, dragged without knowing it into the midst
^ of such a scene, looked around him as if begging everybody's
forbearance, and rubbed his hands faintly too.

"The fact is, my dear Haldane — it was but for five years —
and now we've come to the end of the second five — and you
have been making money by your books, people say——"

It was some little time before Stephen could answer, his lips
had grown so dry. " I think — I know — what you mean," he
said.

" Y^. I am afraid that is how it must be. Not with my
will — not with my will," said Mr. Baldwin ; " but then you
see people say you have been making money by your books."

" He has made sixteen pounds in two years," said Miss
Jane.

Stephen held up his hand hurriedly. " I know how it must
be," he said. "Everybody's patience, of course, must give
way at last"

" Yes, that is just about how it is."

There was very little more said. Mr. Baldwin picked up
his hat, which he had put on the floor, and begged the minis-
ter to give him his arm again. He shook hands very afifec-
tionately with everybody ; he gave them, as it were, his bless-
ing. They all bore it as people ought to bear a great shock,
with pale faces, without any profane levity. "They take it
very well," he said, as he went out. " They are good peo-
ple. Oh, my dear Truston, I don't know a greater sign of the
difierence between the children of this world and the children
of the light than the way in which they receive a sudden
blow."

He had given two such blows within an hour ; he had a
light to speak. And in both cases, different as was, the mien
of the sufierers, the blow itself had all the appearance of a coup
de grcLce. It had not occurred to Mr. Baldwin, when he made
that classification, that it w|U3 his own child whom he had taken
as the type of the children of wrath. He thought of it in the
railway, going home ; and it troubled him. " Poo:^ Clara ! her
brain must be affected," he thought ; he had never heard of any-
thing so heathenish as her boldly-professed determination to
give a ball, if need was, on the eve of her husband's bankrupt-
cy, and for the reason that they would have a right to it. It

AT HIS GATES.

335

horrified him a great deal more than if she had risked some-
body else's money in trade and lost. Poor Clara ! what might
be coming upon her 1 But, anyhow, he reflected, she had her
settlement, and that she was a child of many prayers.

Mrs. Burton said nothing of this stroke which had fallen up-
on her. It made her fears into certainty, and she took cer-
tain steps accordingly, but told nobody. In Stisphen's room
at the Gatehouse there was silence, too, all the weary after-
noon. They had lost the half of their Uving at a blow. The
disaster was too great, too sudden and overwhelming to be
spoken of ; and to one of them, to him who was helpless and
could do nothing, it tasted like the very bitterness of death.

336

AT His GATiCS.

!!!::!!! i

CHAPTER XXXIV.

^^[ BS. BUBTON said nothiug about her troubles to any
one : she avoided rather than sought confidential in-
tercourse with her husband. She formed her plans and
declined to receive any further information on the subject.
Her argument to herself was that no one could have any right
to suppose she knew. When the crash came, if come it must, she
would be universally considered the first of the victims. The very
fact of her entertainments and splendours would be so much
evidence that she knew nothing about it — and indeed what did
she know ) her own fears and suspicions, her father's hintj^ of
coming trouble — nothing more. Her husband had never said
a warning word to her which betrayed alarm or anxiety. She
stood on the verge of the precipice, which she felt a moral cer-
tainty was before her, and made her arrangements like a queen
in the plenitude of her power. " There wSi be enough to bear,"
she repeated to herself. She called all the county about her
in these spring months before people had as yet gone to town.
She made Dura blaze with lights and echo with music : she
filled it full of guests. She made her entertainments on so
grand a scale, that everything that had hitherto been known
there was thrown into the shade. The excitement, so far as
excitement could penetrate into her steady little soul, sustained
and kept her up ; or at least the occupation did, and the thou-
sand arrangements, big and little, which were necessary. If
her husband was ever tempted to seek her sympathy in these
strange, wild, brilliant days which passed like a dream — if the
burden on his shoulders ever so bowed the man down that he
would have been glad to lean it upon hers, it is impossible to say ;
he looked at her sometimes wondering what was in her mind ;
but he was not capable of understanding that clear determined
intelligence. He thought she had got fairly into the whirl of
mad dissipation and enjoyed it. She was playing into his hands,
she was doing the best that could be done to veil his tottering
steps, and divert public attention from his business misfortunes.

AT HIS GATES.

337

He had no more idea why she was doin^ it, or with what de-
liberate conscious steps she was marchmg forward to meet
ruin, than he had of any other incomprehensible wonder in
heaven or earth.

The Haldanes made no secret of the distress which had fallen
upon them. It was a less loss than the cost of one of Mrs.
Burton's parties, but it was unspeakable to them who had no
way of replacing it. By one of those strange coincidences,
however, which occur so often when good people are driven to
desperation,Stephen's publisher quite unexpectedly sent him in
April a cheque for fifty pounds, the produce of his last book, a
book which he had caUed " The Window," and which was a
kind of moral of his summer life and thoughts. It was not, he
himself thought, a very good book ; it was a medley of fine
things and poor things, not quite free from that personal twad-
dle which it is so difficult to keep out of an invalid's or a re-
cluse's view of human affairs. But then the British public is
fond of personal twaddle, and liked those bits best which the
author was most doubtful about. It was a cheap little work,
published by one of those firms which are known as religious
publishers ; and nothing could be more unexpected, more for-
tunate, more consoling, than this fifty pounds. Mrs. Haldane,
with a piety which, perhaps, was a little contemptuous of poor
Stephen's powers, spoke of it, with tears in her eyes, as an ans-
wer to prayer , while Miss Jane, who was proud of her brother,
tried to apportion the credit, half to Providence and half to
Stephen ; but anyhow it made up the lost allowance for the
current year, and gave the poor souls time to breathe.

All this time the idea, which had come into Dr. Maurice's
mind, on the day of the picnic in October, had been slowly ger-
minating. He was not a man whose projects ripened quickly,
and this was a project so delicate that it took him a long time
to get it fully matured, and to accustom himself to it. It had
cope to full perfection in his mind when, in the end of April,
Mrs. Drummond received a letter from him, inviting Norah and
herself to go to his house for a few days, to see the exhibitions
and other shows which belong to that period of the year. This
was an invitation which thrilled Norah's soul within her. She
was at a very critical moment of her life. She had lost the
honest young lover of her childhood, the boy whose love and

Jill

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338

AT HIS GATES.

service had grown so habitual to her that nobody but Norah
knew how dreary the winter had been without lum ; and she
was at present exposed to the full force of attentions much
more close, much more subtle and skilful, but perhaps not so
honest and faithful. Norah had exchanged the devotion of a
young man who loved her as his own soul, for the intoxicating
homage of a man who was very much in love with her, but
who knew that his prospects would be deeply injured, and his
position compromised, did he win the girl whom he wooed with
all the fascinations of a hero in a romance, and all the persist-
ency of a mind set upon having its own way. His whole soul
was set upon winning her ; but what to do afterwards was not
so clear, and Eivers, like many another adventurer in love and
war, left the morrow to provide for itself. But Norah was
very reluctant to be won. Sometimes, indeed, capitulation
seemed very near at hand, but then her lively little temper
would rise up again, or some hidden susceptibility would be
touched, or the girl's independent soul would rise in arms
against the thought of being subjugated like a young woman in
a book by this " novel-hero ! " What were his dark eyes, his
speaking glances, his skilful inference of a devotion above words,
to her 1 Had she not read about such wiles a thousand times ?
And was it not an understood rule that the real hero, the true
lover, the first of men, was never this bewitching personage,
but the plainer, ruder man in the background, with perhaps a
big nose, who was not very lovely to look upon 1 These
thoughts contended in Norah with the fascinations of him whom
she began to think off as the contre-heros. The invitation to
London was doubly welcome to her, insomuch that it inter-
rupted this current of thought, and gave her something new to
think about. She was fond of Dr. Maurice , she had not been
it town since she was a child : she wanted to see the parks and
the pictures, and all the stir and tumult of life. For all these
six years, though Dura was so near town, the mother and
daughter had never been in London. And it looked so bright
to Norah, bright with all the associations of her childhood, and
full of an interest which no other place could ever have in its
associations with the terrible event which ended her childhood.
" You will go, mamma? " she said, wistfully reading the letter
a second time over her mother's shoulder. And Helen, who

AT HIS GATES.

339

felt the need of an interruption and something new to think of
as much as her child did, answered " Yes."

Dr. Maurice was more excited about the approaching event
than they were, though he had to take no thought alK)ut his
wardrobe, and they had to take a great deal of thought ; the
question of Norah's frocks was nothing to his fussiness and agi-
tation about the ladies' rooms and all the arrangements for
their comfrH. He invited an old aunt who lived near to come
^d ay . h him for the ti'"** '^f the Drummonds' \'isit, a pre-
c<?.ution whxK^i^ seemed to her, ^s it seems to me, quite unneces-
sary. I do not think Helen would ha^'e had the least hesitation
in going to his house at her age, though there had been no
chaperon. It was he who wanted the chaperon : he was quite
coy and bashful about the business altogether: and the old
aunt, who was a sharp old lady, was not only much amused,
but had her suspicions aroused. In the afternoon, before his
visitors arrived, he was particularly fidgety. "If you want to
go out, Henry, I will receive your guests," the old lady said,
not without a chuckle of suppressed amusement, "probably
they will only arrive in time to get dressed before dinner. You
may leave them to me."

" You are very kind," said the doctor, but he did not go
away. He walked from one end of the big drawing-room to
the other, and looked at himself in the mirror between the
windows, and the mirror over the mantelpiece. And then he
took up his position before the fireplace, where of course there
was nothing but cut paper. " How absurd are all the relations
between men and women," he said, " and how is it that I can-
not ask my friend's widow, a woman in middle life, to come to

my house — ^without "

" Without having me 1 " said the aunt. " My dear Henry, I
have told you before — I think you could. I have no patience
with the freedom of the present day, in respect to young peo-
ple, but, so far as this goes, I think you are too particular — I

am sure you could "

"You must allow me to be the best judge, aunt, of a matter
that concerns myself," said Dr. Maurice, with gentle severity.
"I know very well what would happen: there would be all sorts
of rumours and reports. People might not, perhaps, say there
was anything absolutely wrong between us — Pray may I ask
what you are laughing at V

SB><(3l;WMill6!r.V,BSW5st!«vsi»Wi*-v

■-^!i:.-i;'

340

AT HIS GATES.

For the old lady whc had interrupted him by a low laugh,
which it was beyond her power to keep in.

" Nothing, my dear, nothing," she said in a little alarm. *^1
am sure I beg your pardon, Henry. I had no idea you were so
sensitive. How old ma v this lady be V

"JIhe question is not about this lady, my dear aunt,*^' he an-
swered in the dogmatic impatient tone, which was so unlike him,
" but about any lady. It might happen to be a comfort to me
to have a housekeeper I could rely on. It would be a great
pleasure to be able to contribute to the comfort of Robert Drum-
mond's family, poor fellow. But I dare not. I know the
arrangement would no sooner be made than the world would
say all sorts of things. How old is Mrs. Drummond 1 She
was under twenty when they were married, I know — and poor
Drummond was about my own age. That is, let me see, Ijiow
long ago) Norah is about eighteen, between eighteen knd
nineteen. Her mother must be nearly, if not quite, forty, I
should think "

" Then, my dear Henry " began the old lady.

" Why, here th ' are ! " he said rushing to the window.
But it was only a ». o next door, or over the way. He went
back to his position, with a little flush upon his middle-aged
countenance. " My dear aunt," he resumed, with a slight tre-
mor in his voice, " it is not a matter that can be discussed, I
assure you. I know what would happen ; and I know that
poor Helen — I mean Mrs. Drummond — would never submit to
anything that would compromise her as Norah's mother. Even
if she were not very sensitive on her own account, as women
generally are, as Norah's mother, of course, she requires to be
doubly careful. And here am I, the oldest friend they have,
as fond of that child as if she were my own, and prevented
by an absurd punctilio from taking them into my house, and
doing my best to make her happy ! As I said before, the
relations between men and women are the most ridiculous
things in the world."

" But I do think, Henry, you make too much of the diffi-
culties," said the old aunt, busying herself with her work, and
not venturing to say more.

" You must allow me to be the best judge," he said, with a
mixture of irritation and superiority. ** You may know the

t \

AT HIS GATES.

341

gossip of the drawing-rooms^ which is bad enough, I don't
doubt ; but I know what men say."

" Oh, then, indeed, my poor Henry," said the old lady, with
vivacity, eagerly seizing the opportunity to have one shot on
her own side, " I can only pray, Good Lord deliver you ; for
evervbody knows there never was a bad piece of scandal yet,
but it was a man that set it on foot."

Aunt Mary thus had the last word, and retired with flying
colours, and in very high feather from the conflict ; for at this
moment the Drummonds arrived, and Dr. Maurice rushed
down-stairs to meet them. The old aunt was a personage very
well worth knowing, though she has very little to do with this
history, and it was with mingled curiosity and amusement that
she watched for the entrance of Mrs. Drummond and her
daughter. It would be a very wise step for him anyhow to
marry, she thought. The Maurice family were very well off",
and there were not many young offshoots of the race to con-
tend for the doctor's money. Was he contemplating the
idea of a wife young enough to be his daughter ] or had he
really the good sense to think of a woman about his own age 1
Aunt Mary, though she was a woman herself, and quite ready
to stand up for her own side, considered Helen Drummond,
under forty, as about his own age, though he was over fifty.
But as the question went through her mind, she shook her
head. She knew a great many men who had made fools of
themselves by marrying, or wishing to marry, the girl young
enough to be their daughter ; but the other class, who had the
good sense, &c., were very rare indeed.

There was, however, very little light thrown upon the sub-
ject by Aunt Mary's observations that evening. Mrs. Drum-
mond was very grave, almost sad ; for the associations of the
house were all melancholy ones, and her last visit to it came
back very closely into her memory as she entered one room —
the great old gloomy dining-room — where Norah, a child, had
been placed by Dr. Maurice's side at table on that memorable
occasion, while she, unable even to make a pretence of eating,
sat and looked on. She could not go back now into the state
which her mind had been in on that occasion. Everything
was calmed and stilled, nay, chilled by this long interval. She
could think of her Bobert without the sinking of the heart —

342

AT HIS GATES.

ii-Jt

!(l':i

the sense of hopeless loneliness — which had moved her then.
The wound had closed up : the blank, if it had not closed up,
had acquired all the calmness of a long-recognised £Eu:t. She
had made up her mind long since, that the happiness which
she could not then consent to part with, was over for her.
That is the great secret of what is called resignation : to con-
sent and agree that what you have been in the habit of calling
happiness is done with ; that you must be content to fill its
place with something else, something less. Helen had come to
this. She no longer looked for it — no longer thought of it.
It was over for her, as her youth was over. Her heart was
tried, not by active sorrow, but by a heavy sense of past pain;
but that did not hinder her from taking her part in the conver-
sation — from smiling at Norah's sallies, at her enthusiasm, at
all the height of her delight in the pleasure Dr. Maurice pro-
mised her. Norah was the principal figure in the scene. She
was surrounded on every side by that atmosphere of fond par-
tiality in which the flowers of youth are most ready to unfold
themselves. Dr. Maurice was even fonder than her mother,
and more indulgent; for Helen had the jealous eye which
marks imperfections, and that intolerant and sovereign love
which cannot put up with a flaw or a speck in those it cherish-
es. To Dr. Maurice the specks and flaws were beauties. No-
rah led the conversation, was gay for every one, talked for
every ore. And the old aunt laughed within herself, and
shook her head : '' He cannot keep his eyes off her ; he cannot
see anything but perfection in her, — but she is a mere excited
child, and her mother is p. beautiful woman," said Aunt Mary
to herself; ''man's taste and woman's, it is to be supposed, will
be different to the end of time." But after she had made this
observation, the old lady was struck by the caressing, fatherly
ways of her nephew towards this child. He would smooth
her hair when he passed by her ; would take her hand into his,
unconsciously, and pat it ; would lay his hand upon her shoul-
der ; none of which things he would have ventured to do had
he meant to present himself to Norah as her lovey. He even
kissed her cheek, when she said good-night, with uncontrollable
fondness, yet unmistakable composure. What did the man
mean )

He had sketched out a very pretty programme for them

AT HIS GATES.

343

for their three daya. Next evening they were to eo to
the theatre ; the next again, to an opera. Norah could not
walk, she danced as she went up-stairs. " The only thing is,
will my dress do V* she said, as she hung about her mother in
the pretty fresh room, new prepared, and hung with bright
chintz, in which Mrs. Drummoud was lodged. Could it have
been done on purpose 1 For certainly the other rooms in the
house still retained their dark old furniture ; dark-coloured,
highly-polished mahogany, with deep red and green damask
curtains — centuries old, as Norah thought. Mrs. Drummond
was surprised, too, at the aspect of this room. She was more
than surprised, she was almost offended, by the presence of the
old aunt as chaperon. " Does the man think I am such a fool
as to be afraid of him 1" she wondered, with a frown and a
smile, but gave herself up to Norah's pleasure, rejoicing to see
that the theatre and the opera were strong enough to defeat for
the moment and drive from the field both Cyril and Ned. And
the next day, and the next, passed like days of paradise to
Norah. She drove about in Dr. Maurice's carriage, and laughed
at her own grandour, and enjoyed it. She called perpetually
to her mother to notice ladies walking who were like themselves.

" That is what you and I should be doing, if it were not for
this old darling of a doctor ! trudging along in the sun, getting
hot and red "

" But think, you little sybarite, that is what we shall be
doing to-morrow," cried Helen, half amused and half afraid.

" No, the day after to-morrow," said Norah, " and then it
will be delightful. We can look at the people in the carriages,
and say, * We are as good as you ; — we looked down upon you
yesterday.' And mamma, we are going to the opera to-night !"

" You silly child," Helen said. But to eyes that danced so,
and cheeks that glowed so, what could any mother say ?

It was the after-piece after that opera, however, which was
what neither mother nor daughter had calculated upon, but
which, no doubt, was the special cause of their invitation, and
of the new chintz in the bedrooms, and of all the expense Dr.
Maurice had be^n at. Norah was tired when they got home.
She had almost over-enjoyed herself. She chatted so that no
one could say a word. Her cheeks were blazing with excite-
ment. When the two elder people could get a hearing, they

WW '

344

AT HIS GATES.

sent her off to bed, though she protested she had not said half
she had to say. " Save it up for to-morrow," said Dr. Maurice
" and run off and put yourself to bed, or I shall have you ill on
my hands. Mrs. Brummond, send her away."

" Go Norah, dear, you are tired," said Helen.

Norah stood protesting, with her pretty white cloak hansing
about her ; her rose-ribbons a little in disorder ; her eyes like
two sunbeams. How fondly her old friend looked at her ; with
what proud, tender, adoring, fatherly admiration) If Aunt
Mary had not been away in bed, then at least she must have
divined. Dr. Maurice lit her candle and took her to the door.
He stooped down suddenly to her ear and whispered, " I have
something to say to your mother." Norah could not have ex-
plained the sensation that came over her. She grew chill to
her very finger's ends, and gave a wondering glance at him, then
accepted the candle without a word, and went away. The
wonder was still in her eyes when she got up-stairs, and looked
at herself in the glass. Instead of throwing off her cloak to see
how she looked, as is a girl's first impulse, she stared blankly
into the glass, and could see nothing but that surprise. What
could he be going to talk about? What would her mother
say?

Helen had risen to follow her daughter, but Dr. Maurice
came back, having closed the door carefully, and placed a chair
for her. ** Mrs. Drummond, can you give me len minutes 1 I
have something to say to you," he said.

*^ Surely, said Helen ; and she took her seat, somewhat sur-
prised ; but not half so much surprised as Norah was, nor,
indeed, so much as Dr. Maurice was, now that matters had
finally come to a crisis, to find himself in such an extraordinary
position. Helen ran lightly over in her mind a number of sub-
jects on which he might be going to speak to her ; but the real
subject never entered her thoughts. He did not sit down,
though he had given her a chair. He moved about uneasily
before her, changing his attitude a dozen times in a minute, and
clearing his throat. " He is going to offer me money for
Norah," was Helen's thought.

" Mrs. Drummond," he said — and his beginning confirmed
her in her idea — " I am not a — ^marrying man, as you know.
I am — past the age — ^when men think of such things. I am on

AT HIS GATES.

345

the shady side of fifty, though not very far gone; and you are
— about forty, I suppose 1"

" Thirty-nine," said Helen, with more and more surprise, and
yet with the natural reluctance of a woman to have a year
unjustly added to her age.

" Well, well, it is very much the same thing. I never was
in love that I know of, at least not since ; — and — and — that
sort of thing, of course, is over for — ^you."

" Dr. Maurice, what do you mean f cried Helen in dismay.

" Well, it is not very hard to guess," he saiJ doggedly. " I
mean that you are past the lo\ ^-business, yo) know, and I —
never came to it, so to speak. Look herr, Helen Drummond,
why shouldn't you and I, if it comes to that — marry ? If I
durst do it I'd ask you to come and live here, and let Norah be
child to both of us, without any nonsense botw en you and me
But that can't be done, as you will easily per t ive. Now I am
sure we could put up with one another ap well a^ most p*^ )ple. and
we have one strong bond between us in Norah — anu -I could
give her everything she wishes for. 1 could and I would pro-
vide for her when I die. You are not one to want pretence tb
made to you, or think much of a sacrifice for your child's sake.
I am not so vain but to allow that it might be a sacrifice — to us
both."

" Dr. Maurice." said Helen, half laughing, half sobbing, " if
this is a joke "

" Joke ! am I in the way of making such jokes ? Why, it
has cost me six months to think this joke out. There is no
relaxation of the necessary ^onds that I would not be ready to
allow. You know the hovLuc ad my position, and ever3rthing I
could offer. As for settlements, and all business of that
kind "

" Hush," she said. *' Stop !" She rose up and held out her
hand to him. There were tears in her eyes ; but there was
also a smile on her face, and a blush which went and came as she
spoke. " Di'; Maurice," she said, " don't think that I cannot
appreciate the pure and true friendship for Robert and
me "

" Just so, -just so !" he interposed, nodding his head; he put
his other hand on hers, and patted it as he had patted Norah's,
but he did not again look her in the face. The elderly bachelor

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346

AT His GATES.

■'■', ;i , ■

1.1

had grown shy — he did not know why; the most curious
sensation, a feeling quite unknown to him was creeping ahout
the region of his heart.

" AjQd the love for Norah " resumed Helen.

" Just so, just so."

" Which have made you think of this. But — ^but — ^but "

She stopped ; she had been running to the side of tears, when
suddenly she changed her mind. " But I think it is all a mis-
take ! I am quite ready to come and stay with you, to keep
house for you, to let you have Norah's company, when you like
to ask. I don't want any chaperon. Your poor, dear, good
aunt ! Dr. Maurice," cried Helen, her voice rising into a hyste-
rical laugh, " I assure you it is all a mistake."

He let her hand drop out of his. He turned away from her
with a shrug of his shoulders. He walked to the table and
screwed up the moderator lamp, which had run down. Then
he came back to his former position and said, " I am much
more in the world than you are ; you will permit ma to con-
sider myself the best judge in this case. It is not a mistake.
And I have no answer from you to my proposal as yet."

Then Helen's strength gave way. The more serious view
which she had thrust from her, which she had rejected as too
solemn, came back. The blush vanished from her face, and so
did the smile. " You were his friend," she said with quiver-
ing lips. " You loved him as much as any one could, except
me. Have you forgotten you are speaking to — Robert's
wife."

" Good Lord !" cried Dr. Maurice with sudden terror ; " but
he is dead."

" Yes, he is dead ; but I do not see what difference that
makes ; when a woman has once been a man's wife, she is so
always. If there is any other world at all, she must be so al-
ways. I hate the very name of widow ! " cried Helen vehe-
mently, with the l;ears glittering in her eyes. "I abhor it ; I
don't believe in it I am his wife ! "

Dr. Maurice was a man who had always held himself to be
invincible to romantic or high-flown feelings. But somehow
he was startled by this view of the question. It had not
occurred to him before ; for the moment it staggered him, so that
he had to pause and think it over. Then he said, '^Non-

AT HIS GATES.

347

sense ! " abruptly. " Mrs. Drummond, I cannot think that
such a view as this is worth a moment's consideration ; it is
against both reason and common sense."

She did not make any reply ; she made a movement of her
hand, deprecating, expostulating, but she would not say any
more.

" And Scripture too," said Dr. Maurice triumphantly, " it is
quite against Scripture." Then he remembered that this was
not simply an argument in which he was getting the better,
but a most practical question. " If it is disagreeable to you,
it is a different matter," he said ; " but I had hoped, with all
the allowances I was ready to make, and for Norah's sake "

" It is not disagreeable. Dr. Maurice ; it is simply imposible,
and must always be so," she said.

Then there was another silence, and the two stood opposite
to each other, not looking at each other, longing both for some-
thing to free them. " In that case, I suppose there had better
be no more words on the subject," he said turning half away.

" Except thanks," she cried ; thanks for the most generous
thoughts, the truest friendship. I will never forget "

" I do not know how far it was generous," he said moodily,
and he got another candle and lighted it for her, as he had
done for Norah ; " and the sooner you forget the better. Good
night."

Good night ! When he looked round the vacant room a
moment after, and felt himself alone, it seemed to Dr. Maurice
as if he had been dreaming. He must have fallen down sud-
denly from some height or other — fallen heavily and bruised
himself, he thought — and so woke up out of an odd delusion quite
unlike him, which had arisen he could not tell how. It was a
very curious sensation. He felt sore and downcast, sadly dis-
appointed and humbled in his own conceit. It had not even
occurred to him that the matter might end in this way. He
gave a long sigh, and said aloud, " Perhaps it is quite as well
it has ended so. Probably we should not have liked it had we
tried it," and then went up to his lonely chamber, hearing, as
he thought, his step echo over all the vacant house. Yes, it
was a vacant house. He had chosen that it should be years
ago, and yet the feeling now was dreary to him, and it would
never be anything but vacant for all the rest of his life.

M;-

S48

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XXXV.

,T was difficult for the two who had thus parted at night to
meet again at the breakfast-table next morning without
any sign of that encounter, before the sharp eyes of Aunt
Mary, and Norah's youthful, vivacious powers of observation.
Dr. Maurice was the one who found the ordeal most hard.
He was sullen and had a headache, and talked very little, not
feeling able for it. " You are bilious, Henry ; that is what it
is," the aunt said. For though he was over fifty, and prided
himself on his now utterly prosaic character, the doctor felt
wounded by such an explanation. He did not venture to
glance at Helen, even when he shook hands with her ; though
he had a lurking curiosity within him to see how she looked
whether triumphant or sympathetic. He knew that he ought
to have been gay and full of talk, to put the best face possible
upon his downfall ; but he did not feel able to do it ; not to
feel sore, not to feel small, and miserable, and disappointed,
was beyond his powers. Helen was not gay either, nor at all
triumphant ; she felt the embarrassment of the position as
much as he did ; but in these cases it is the woman who, gene-
rally, has her wits most about her ; and Mrs. Drummond, who
was conscious of the child's jealous inspection, talked rather
more than usual. Norah had demanded to know what the
doctor had to say on the previous night ; a certain dread was
in her mind. She had felt that something was coming, some-
thing that threatened the peace of the world. "What did he
say to you, mamma 1 " she had asked anxiously. *' Nothing
of importance," Helen had replied But Norah knew better; and
all that bright May morning, while the sunshine shone out of
doors, even though it was in London, and tempted the country
girl abroad, she kept by her mother's side and watched her with
suspicious eyes. Had Norah known the real state of affairs,
her shame and indignation would have known no bounds ; but
Helen made so great an effort to dismiss all consciousness from

AT HIS GATES.

349

her face and tone, that the child was balked at last, and retired
from the field. Aunt Mary, who had experience to hack
her, saw more clearly. Whatever had been going to happen
had happened, she perceived, and had not been successful.
Thus they all breakfasted, watching each other, Helen being
the only one who knew everything and betrayed nothing.
After breakfast they were going to the Exhibition. It had.
been deferred to this day, which was to be their last.

" I do not think I will go," said Dr. Maurice : and then he
caught Norah's look full of disappointment, which was sweet
to him. *' You want me, do you, child ? " he asked. There
was a certain ludicrous pathos in the emphasis which was al-
most too much for Helen's gravity, though, indeed, laughter
was little in her thoughts.

" Of course I want you," said Norah ; " and so does mamma.
Fancy sending us away to wander about London by ourselves !
That was not what you invited us for, surely. Dr. Maurice 1
And then after the pictures, let us have another splendid drive
in the carriage, and despise all the people who are walking !
It will be the last time. You rich people, you have not half
the pleasure you might have in being rich. I suppose, now
when you see out of the carriage window somebody you know
walking, it does not make you proud 1 "

" I don't think it does," said the doctor with a smile.

"That is because you are hardened to it," said Norah.
" You can have it whenever you please ; but as for me, I am
as proud "

" I wish you had it always, my dear," said Dr. Maurice ;
and this time his tone was almost lachrymose. It was so
hard-hearted of Helen to deny her child these pleasures and
advantages, aU to be purchased at the rate of a small personal
sacrifice on her part — a sacrifice such as he himself was quite
ready to make.

" Oh, I should not mind that, " cried Norah ; " if I had it
always, I should get hardened to it too. I should not mind ;
most likely then I should prefer walking, and think carriages
only fit for old ladies. Didn't you say that one meets every-
body at the Academy, mamma ? "

" A great many people, Norah."

" I wonder whom we shall meet," said the girl ; and a sud-

^f i .ii. W i ^ at^t

mifKffBirtmmmimm

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350

AT HIS GATES.

den blush floated over her face. Helen looked at her with
some anxiety. She did not know what impression Cjnril Rivers
might have made on Norah's heart. Was it him she was
thinking of "? Mrs. Drummend herself wondered, too, a little.
She was half afraid of the old friends she might see there. But
then she reflected to herself dreamily, :hat life goes very quickly
in London, that six years was a long time, and that her old
friends might have forgotten her. H* w changed her own feel-
ings were ! She had never been fon< of painters, her hus-
band's brothers-in-arms. Now the let st notable of them, the
most painty, the most slovenly, would look somehow like a
shadow of Robert. Should she see any of those old faces 1
Whom should she meet ? Norah's light question moved many
echoes of which the child knew nothing; and it was to be an-
swered in a way of which neither of them dreamed.

The mere entrance into those well-known rooms had an in-
describable effect upon Helen. How it all rushed back upon her,
the old life! The pilgrimages up those steps, the progress through
the crowd to that special spot where one picture was hung ; the
anxiety to see how it looked — ^if there was anything near it that
" killed " it in colour, or threw it into the shade in power ;
her own private hope, never expressed to any one, that it
might " come better " in the new place. Dr. Maurice stalked
along by her side, but he did not say anything to her ; and for
her part, «?he could not speak — her heart and her eyes were
full. She could only see the other people's pictures glimmer-
ing as through a mist. It seemed so strange to her, almost
humiliating, that there was nothing of her own to go to — no-
thing to make a centre to this gallery, which had relapsed into
pure art., without any personal interest in it. By-and-'jy, when
the first shock had worn off, she began to be able to see what
was on the walls, and to come back to her present circum-
stances. So many names were new to her in those six years :
so many that she once knew had crept out of sight into comers
and behind doorways. She had begun to get absorbed in the
sight, which was so much more to her than to most people, when
Mr. Rivers came up to them. He had known they were to be
in town ; he had seen them at the opera on the previous night,
and had found out a good deal about their plans. But London
was different from Dura : and he had not ventured to offer his

AT HIS GATES.

351

attentions before the eyes of all the world, and all the cousins
and connections and friends who might have come to a know-
ledge of the fact that an unknown pretty face had attracted
his homage. But of a morning, at the Royal Academy, he felt
himself pretty saf " ^ there every one is liable to meet some
friend from the country, and the most watchful eyes of society
are not on the alert at early hours. He came to them now with
eager salutations.

'* I tried hard to get at you at the opera last night," he aaidy
putting himself by Norah's side ; " but I was with my own
people, and I could not get away."

"Were you at the opera last night T' said Norah, with not
half the surprise he anticipated ; for she was not aware of the
facilities of locomotion in such places, nor that he might have
gone to her had he so desired ; and besides, she had seen no
one, being intent upon the stage. Yet there was a furtive look
about him now, a glance round now and then, to see who was
near them, which startled her. She could not make out ^hat
it meant.

" Come, and I will show you the best pictures," he said ;
and he took her catalogue from her hand and pointed out to
her which must be looked at first.

They made a pretty group as they stood thus, — Norah look-
ing up with her sunshiny eyes, and he stooping over her, bend-
ing down till his silky black beard almost touched her hair..
She little, and he tall — she full of vivacity, light, and sunshine ;;
he somewhat quiet, languishing, Byronic in his beauty. Norah
was not such a perfect contrast to him as Clara was — the
Rhubens to the Byron ; but her naturalness, the bright, glow-
ing intelligence and spirit about her — the daylight sweetness
of her face, with which soul had as much to do as feature,
contrasted still more distinctly with the semi-artificiality of the
hero. For even granting that he was a little artificial, he was
a real hero all the same ; his handsomeness and air of good
society were unmistakable, his conversation was passable ; he
knew the thousand things which people in society know, and
which, whether they understand them or not, they are in the
habit of hearing talked about. All these remarks were made,
not by Norah, nor by Norah's mother, but by Dr. Maurice, who
stood by and did not pretend to have any interest in the pictures.

352

AT HIS GATES.

And this young fellow was the Honourable Cyril, and would
be Lord Rivers. Dr. Maurice, kept an eye upon him, wonder-
ing, as Helen had done : Did he mean anything 1 what did he
mean 1

" But there is one above all which I must show you— every
one is talking of it," said Mr. Rivers. " Come this way. Miss
Drummond. It is not easy to reach it ; there is always such a
crowd round it. Dr. Maurice, bring Mrs. Drummond; it is in
the next room. Come this way."

Norah followed him, thinking of nothing but the pictures ;
and her mother and Dr. Maurice wont after them slowly, say-
ing nothing to each other. They had entered the great room,
following the younger pair, when some one stepped out of the
crowd and came forward to Helen. He took off his hat and
called her by her name — at first doubtfully, then with assur-
ance.

" I thought I could not be mistaken," he cried, "and yet it
is so long since you have been seen here."

"I am living in the country," said Helen. Once more the
room swam round her. The new-comer's voice and aspect
carried her back, with all the freshness of the first impression,
to the studio and its visitors again.

" And you had just been in my mind," said the painter.
" There is a picture here which reminds us all so strongly of
poor dear Dnimmond. Will y ju let me take you to it ? It is
exactly his style, his best style, with all that tenderness of
feeling — It has set us all talking of you and him. Indeed,
none of his old friends have forgotten him ; and this is so
strangely like his work "

" Where is it ? — one of his pupils, perhaps," said Helen.
She tried to be very composed, and to show no emotion; but it
was so long since she had heard his name, so long since he had
been spoken of before her ! She felt grateful, as if they had
done her a personal service, to think that they talked of Rob-
ert still.

" This way," said the painter ; and just then Norah met her,
flying back with her eyes shining, her ribbons flying, wonder
and excitement in her face.

Norah seized her moth er by the hands, gasping in her haste
and emotion. " Oh, mam ma, come ; it is our picture," she cried.

AT HIS GATES.

353

Wondering, Helen went forward. It was the upper end of the
room, the place of honour. Whether it was that so many people
around her carried her on like a body-guard making her a way
through the crowd, or that the crowd itself, moved by that subtle
sympathy which sometimes communicates itself to the mass more
easily than to individuals, melted before her, as if feeling she had
the best right to be there, I cannot tell. But all at once Helen
found herself close to the crimson cord which the pressure of
the throng had almost broken down, standing before a picture.
One picture — was there any other in the place 1 It was the
picture of a face looking up, with two upward reaching hands,
from the bottom of an abyss, full of whirling clouds and var
pour. High above this was a bank of heavenly blue, and a
white cloud of faintly indistinct spectators, pitiful angel forms,
and one visionary figure, as of a woman gazing down. But it was
the form below in which the interest lay. It was worn and
pale, with the redness of tears about the eyes, the lips pressed
closely together, the hands only appealing, held up in a passion-
ate silence. Helen stood still, wi^h eyes that would not believe
what they saw. She became unconscious of everything about
her though the people thronged upon her, supporting her,
though she did not know. Then she held out her hands wild-
ly, with a cry which rang through the rooms and penetrated
every one in them — " Robert 1 " — and fell at the foot of the
picture, which was called " Dives " — the first work of a name-
less painter whom nobody knew.

It would be impossible to describe the tumult and commo-
tion which rose in the room to which everybody hastened from
every comer of the exhibition, thronging the doorways and
and every available corner, and making it impossible for some
minutes to remove her. " A lady fainted ! Is that all ) " the
disappointed spectators cried. They had expected something
more exciting than so common, so trifling an occurrence.
" Fortunately," the newspapers said who related the incident,
" a medical man was present ; " and when Helen came to her-
self, she found Dr. Maurice standing over her, with his finger
on her pulse. " It is the heat, and the fatigue— and all that,"
he said ; and all through the rooms people repeated to each
other that it was the heat and the dust and the crowd, and
that there was nothing so fatiguing as looking at pictures.
w

' tUW - l.'.. U-,..! WtilJfekjtl l J ^

354

AT HIS GATES.

''Both body and mind are kept on the strain, you know,"
they said, and immediately thought of luncheon. But Dr.
Maurice thoueht of something very different He did not un*
derstand all this commotion about a picture ; if his good heart
would have let him, he would have tried to think that Helen
was " making a fuss." As it was he laid this misfortune to the
door of women generally, whom there was no understanding ;
aud then, in a parenthesis, allowed that he might himself be
to blame. He should not have agitated her, he thought ; but
added, " Good Lord, what are women good for, if they have
to be kept in a glass-house, and never spoken to 1 The best
thing is to be rid of them, after all."

I will not attempt to describe what Helen's thoughts were
when she came to herself. She would not, dared not betray
to any one the impression, which was more than an impression
— the conviction that had suddenly come to her. She put up
her hand, and silenced Norah, who was beginning, open-
mouthed, " Oh, mamma 1 " She called the old friend to her,
who had attended the group down into the vestibule, and beg-
ged him to find out for her exactly who the painter was, and
where he was to be heard of ; and there she sat, still abstract-
ed with a singing in her ears, which she thought was only the
rustle of the thoughts that hurried through her brain, until
she should be able to go home. It was while they were wait-
ing thus, standing round her, that another event occurred, of
which Helen was too much absorbed to take any but the
slightest cognizance. She was seated on a bench, still very
pale, and unable to move. Dr. Maurice was mounting guard
over her. Norah stood talking to Mr. Rivers on the other
side ; while, meanwhile, the stream of the public was flowing
past, and new arrivals entering every moment by the swinging
doors. Norah had grown very earnest in her talk. " We have
the very same subject at home, the same picture," she was say-
ing ; her eyelashes were dewy with tears, her whole face full
of emotion. Her colour went and came as she spoke ; she
stood looking up to him with a thrill of feeling and meaning
about her, such as touch the heart more than beauty. And
yet there was no lack of beauty. A lady who had just come
in, paused, having her attention attracted to the group, and
looked at them all, as she thought she had a right to do. '' The

AT HIS GATES.

355

know,"
But Dr.
not un-
)d heart
kt Helen
.6 to the
anding ;
Mself be
;ht J but
ley have
Ihe best

hts were
3t betray
ipreasion
le put up
ig, open-
id to her,
and beg-
was, and
abstract-
only the
in, until
ire wait-
lurred, of
but the
itill very
Lg guard
ihe other
flowing
Iswinging
IWe have
1 was say-
face full
)ke ; she
I meaning
ty. And
lust come
loup, and
'♦The

poor lady who faintad," she heard some one say. But this girl
who stood in front had no appearance of fainting. She was all
life and tenderness and fire. The woman who looked on ad-
mired her fresh, sweet youthfulness, her face, which, in its
changing colour, was like a flower. She admired all these, and
made out, with a quick observant eye, that the girl was the
daughter of the pale, beautiful woman by the wall, and not un-
worthy of her. And then suddenly, without a pause, she
called out, " Cyril ! " Young Rivers started as if a shot had
struck him. He rushed to her with tremulous haste. " Mother!
you don't mean to say that you have come here alone 1 "

" But I do mean it, and I want you to take care of me,*' she
said taking his arm at once. " I meant to come early. We
have no time to lose."

Norah stood surprised, looking at the woman who was Cyril's
mother ; in a pretty pause of expectation, the blush coming and
going on her face, her hand ready to be timidly put out in
greeting, her pretty mouth half smiling already, her eyes watch-
ing with an interest of which she was not ashamed. Why
should she be ashamed of being interested in Cyril's mother )
She waited for the approach, the introduction — most likely the
elder woman's gracious greeting. " For she must have heard
of me too," Norah thought. She cast down her eyes, pleasantly
abashed ; for Lady Rivers was certainly looking at her. When
she looked up again, in wonder that she was not spoken to,
Cyril was on the stair with his mother, going up. He was
looking back anxiously, waving his hand to her from behind
Lady Rivers. He had a beseeching look in his eyes, his face
looked miserable across his mother's shoulders, but — ^he was
gone. Norah looked round her stupefied. Had anything hap-
pened? — was she dreaming ? And then the blood rushed to
her face in a crimson flush of pride and shame.

She bore this blow alone, without even her mother to share
and soften it ; and the child staggered under it for the moment.
She grew as pale as Helen herself after that one flash. When
the carriage came to the door, two women, marble- white, stepped
into it. Dr. Maurice had not the heart to go with them ; he
would walk home, he said. And Norah looked out of the win-
dow, as she had so joyfully anticipated doing in her happiness
and levity, but not -to despise the people who walked. The

356

AT HIS GATES.

*^;>

only thought of which she was capable waa — Is everybody like
that) Do people behave so naturally 1 Is it the way of the
world f

This is what they met at the Academy, where they went so
lightly, not knowing. The name of the painter of the " Dives "
reached them that same night ; it was not in the catalogue.
His name was John Sinclair, Thirty-fifth Avenue, New York.

liili

AT HIS GATES.

367

CHAPTER XXXVI.

OU must be dreaming," cried Dr. Maurice with energy.
" You must be <]r« -iming ! With my— foUv — and other
things — you have got into a nervous state.

" I am not dreaming," she said very quietly. There was no
appearance of excitement about her. She sat with her hands
clasped tightly together, and her eyes wandering into the un-
known, into the vacant air before her. And her mind had got
possession of one burden, and went over and over it, repeating
within herself, " John Sinclair, Thirty-fifth Avenue, New York.

" I will show you the same picture," she went on. " The
very same, line for line. It was the last he ever did. And in

his letter he spoke of Dives looking up . John Sinclair,

Thirty-fifth Avenue, New York !"

" Helen, Helen ? " said Dr. Maurice with a look of pity. He
had never called her anything but Mrs. Drummond till the
evening before, and now the other seemed so natural ; for, in
fact, she did not even notice what he called her. " How easy
it is to account for all this ! Some one else must have seen
the sketch, who was impressed by it as much as you were, and
who knew the artist was dead, and could never claim his pro-
perty. How easy to see how it may have been done, especially
by a smart Yankee abroad."

. She shook her head without a word, with a faint smile ; ar-
gument made no difference to her. She was sure ; and what
did it matter what any one said 1

" Then I will tell you what I will do," he said. " I have
some friends in New York. I will have inquiries made in-
stantly about John Sinclair. Indeed it is quite possible some
one may know him here. I shall set every kind of inquiry on
foot to-morrow, to satisfy you. I warn you nothing will come
of it — nothing would make me believe such a thin^' ; but still,
to prevent you taking any rash steps "

" I will take no rash steps," she said. " I will do nothing.
I will wait till— I hear."

njinuLU . 1 1 ■ ' llJl i ^iu i H WiWPIIimiqjIWWWWff^JWW'IWW

'. Uh.

S58

AT HIS GATtL

" Why this is madness," he said. And then all at once a
cold shudder passed over him, and he said to himself, " Good
God ! what if she had not refused last night ! "

But the very fact that she had refused was a kind of guaran-
tee that there was nothing in this wild idea of hers. Had there
been anything in it, of course she would have accepted, and all
sorts of horrors would have ensued. Such was Dr. Maurice's
opinion of Providence, and the opinion of many other judicious
people. The fact that a sudden reappearance would do no
harm made it so much less likely that there would be any re-
appearance. He tried hard to dismiss the idea altogether from
his mind. It was not a comfortable idea. It is against all the
traditions, all the prejudices of life, that a man should come
back from the dead. A wild, despairing Dives might wish for
it, or a mourner half frantic with excess of sorrow; but to the
ordinary looker-on the idea is so strange as to be painful. Dr.
Maurice had a true affection for Robert Drummond ; but he
could not help feeling that it would be out of all character, out
of harmony, almost an offence upon decency that he should not
be dead.

It was curious, however, what an e£fect this fancy of Helen's
had in clearing away the all cloud of embarrassment which had
naturally fallen between her and him. All that produced that
cloud had evidently disappeared from her mind. She remem-
bered it no more. It was not that she had thrust it away of
set will and purpose, but that without any effort it had disap-
peared. This was, it is true, somewhat humiliating to Dr.
Maurice ; but it was very convenient for all the purposes of
life that it should be so. And she sat with him now and dis-
cussed the matter, abstracted in the greieit excitement which had
taken possession of her, yet calmed by it, without a recollection
that anything had ever passed between them which could con-
fuse their intercourse. This unconsciousness, I say, was humil-
iating in one sense, though in another it was relief to the man
who did not forget ; but it confused him while it set Helen at
her ease. It was so extraordinary to realize what was the state
of affairs yesterday, and what to-day — to enter into so new and
wonderful a region of possibilities, after having lived so long
in quite another ; for, to be sure, Helen had only known of
Dr. Maurice's project as regarded herself since last night j

AT HIS GATES.

359

whereas, he had known it for six months, and during all that
time had been accustoming himself to it, and now had to make
a mental spring as far away from it as possible — a kind of gym-
nastic exercise which has a very bewildering effect upon an or-
dinary mind.

It was a relief to all the party when the Drummonds went
home next morning ; except, perhaps, to the old aunt, who had
grown interested in the human drama thus unexpectedly pro-
duced before her, and who would have liked to see it out. The
mother and daughter were glad to go home ; and yet how life
had changed to them in these three days ! It had given to
Helen the glow of a wild incomprehensible hope, a something
supernatural, mixed with terror and wonder, and a hundred
conflicting emotions ; while to Norah it had taken the romance
out of life. To contemplate life without romance is hard upon
a girl ; to have a peep, as it were, behind the scenes, and see
the gold of fairy -land corroding itself into slates, and the beauty
into dust and ashes. Such a revolution chills one to the very
soul. It is almost worse than the positive heartbreak of disap-
pointed love, for that has a warm admixture of excitement, and
is supported by the very sharpness of its own suflFering ; where-
as in Norah's pain there was but disenchantment and angry
humiliation, and that horrible sense that the new light was
true and the other false, which takes all courage from the heart
She had told her mother, and Helen had been very indignant,
but not so wroth as her daughter. " Lady Rivers might have
no time to wait — she might have wanted him for something
urgent — there might be something to explain," Helen said; but
as for Norah, she felt that no explanation was possible. For
months past this man had been making a show of his devotion
to her. He had done everything except ask her in words to
be his wife. He had been as her shadow, whenever he could
come to Dura, and his visits had been so frequent that it was
very evident he had seized every opportunity to come ; yet the
moment his mother appeared on the scene, the woman whom
in all the world he ought to have most wished to attach to the
girl whom he loved, he had left her with shame and embarrass-
ment — escaped from her without even the politeness of a leave-
taking. Norah had wondered whether she cared for him in
the old days ; she had asked herself shyly, as girls do, whether

'III

•I

^ii

',;'.

SbO

AT HIS GATES.

the little flutter of her heart at his appearance could possibly
mean that sacredest, most wonderful and fascinating of my«i-
teries — ;love t Sometimes she had been disposed to believe it
dl'l : and then again she had surprised herseff in the midst of a
sudden longing for poor Ned with his big nose, and had blushed
and asked herself angrily, was the one compatible with the
other. In short, she had not known what to make of her own
feelings ; for she was not expeiienced enough to be able to tell
the diiSterence — a difference which sometimes puzzles the wisest
—between the effect produced by gratified vanity, and pleasure
in the love of another, and that which springs from love itself.
But she wss in no doubt about the anger, the mortification, the
indignant shame with which her whole nature rose up against
the man who had dai^d to be ashamed of her. Of this there
could be no explanation. She said to herself that she hoped
he would ncc come again or attempt to make any explanation,
and then she resented bitterly the fact that he did not come.
She had made up her mind what she would say, how she would
crush him with quiet scorn, and wonder at his apologies.
" Why should you apologize, Mr. Eivers 1 I had no wish to be
introduced to your mother." she meant to say ; but as day af-
ter day passed, and he gavo her no opportunity of saying this,
Norah's thoughts grew more bitter, more fiery than ever. And
life was dull without this excitement in it. The weather was
bright, and the season sweet, and I suppose she had her share
of rational pleasure as in other seasons ; but to her own con-
sciousness Norah was bitterly ill-used, insomuch as she had not
an opportunity to tell, or at least to show, Cyril Fivers what
she thought of him. I^; had been an immediate com^ jrt to her
after the affront he had put upon her, that she would have this
in her power.

The change that had come upon the lives of the two Ldies
in the Gatehouse was, however, scarcely apparent to their little
world. Norah was a little out of temper, fitful, and ready to
take offence, the Daltons at the Eectory thought ; and Mrs.
Brummond was more silent than usual, and had an absorbed
look in her eyes, a look of abstraction for which it was difficult
to account. But this was all that was apparent outside. Per
haps Mr. Bivers was a little longer than usual in visiting Dura ;
he had not been there for ten days, and Katie Dal ton won-

AT HIS GATES.

361

dered audibly what had become of him. Biit nobody except
Norah supposed for a moment that his connection with Dura
was to be broken off in this sudden way. And eyer3rthing
else went on as usual. If Mrs. Drummoud was less frequently
visible, no one remarked it much. Norah would run over and
ask Katie to walk with her, on the plea that " mamma has a
headache," and Mrs. Dalton would gather her work together,
and cross the road in the sunshine and ** sit with" the sufferer.
But the only consequence of this visit would be that the
blinds would be drawn down over the three windows in front,
Mrs. Dalton having an idea that light was bad for a headache,
and that when she returned she would tell her eldest daughter
that poor dear Mrs. Drummond was very poorly and very
anxious for news of a friend whom she had not heard of for
years.

And the picture of Dives, which had been hung in a sacred
corner, where Helen said her prayers, was brought out, and
placed in the full light of day. It was even for a time
brought down-stairs, while the first glow of novel hope
and wonder lasted, and placed in the drawing-room, where
ever}^body who saw it wondered at it. It was not so well paint-
ed as the great picture in the Academy. It was even different
in many of its details. There was no hope in the face of this,
but only a haggard passionate despair, while the look of the
other was concentrated into such an agony of appealing as
cannot exist where there is no hope. Dr. Maurice even, when
he came down, declared forcibly that it was difficult for him
to trace the resemblance. Perhaps the leading idea was the
same, but then it was so differently worked out. He looked
at the picture in every possible light, and this was the conclu-
sion he came to ; — No ; no particular resemblance, a coinci-
dence, that was all. And John Sinclair was a perfectly well-
known painter, residing in New York, a man known to Dr.
Maurice's friends there. Why there was no nane to the pic-
ture in the catalogue nobody could tell. It was some absurd
mistake or other; but John Sinclair, the painter, was a man
who had been known in New York for years. " Depend upon
it, it is only a coincidence," Dr. Maurice said. After that visit,
from what feeling I cannot say, the picture was taken back up-

K»ii«*»Jw.««6W«is(*

9m»^sMm^m0^mmmmKHmm

362

AT HIS GATES,

■'*

h»f" M

V %

stairs. Not that Mrs. Drummond was convinced, but that she
shrank from further discussion of a matter on which she felt so
deeply She would sit before it for hours, gazing at it, care-
less of everything else ; and if I were to reproduce all the
thoughts that coursed through Helen's mind, I should do her
injury with the reader, who, no doubt, believes that the feelings
in a wife's mind, when such a hope entered it, could only be
those of half a delirious joy. But He ]#^n*« thoughts were not
wildJy joyful. She had been hardly and painfully trained to
do without him, to p«t him out of her life. Her soul had slid
into new ways, changed meanings ; and in that time what
change of meaning what difference of nature might have come
to a man who had returned from death and the grave ?
Could it all be undone ? Could it float away like a tale that
is told, that tale of seven long years 1 Would the old assim-
ilate with the new, and the widow become a wife again without
some wrench, some convulsion of nature 1 Not long before
she had denounced the name vehemently, crying out against it,
declaring that she did not believe in it : but now, when per-
haps it might turn out that her widowhood had been indeed a
fiction and unreal — now ! How was she to be a wife again ;
how her existence was to suffer a new change, and return into
its old channel, Helen could not tell. And yet that Robert
should live again, that he should receive some recompense for
all his sufferings ; that even she who had been in her way so
cruel to him, should be able to make up for it — for that, Helen
would have given her life. The news about John Sinclair was
a discouragement, but still it did not touch her faith. She
carried her picture up-stairs again, and put it reverently, not
in its old corner, but where the sunshine would fall upon it
and the full light of day. The fancifulness of this proceeding
did not occur to her, for grief and hope, and all the deeper
emotions of the heart, are always fanciful : and in this time of
suspense, when she could do nothing, when she was waiting,
listening for indications of what was coming, that silent idol-
worship which no one knew of, did her good.

Meanwhile Dura went on blazing with lights, and sweet with
music, making every day a holiday. Mrs. Burton did not
walk so much as she used to do, but drove about, giving her
orders, paying her visits, with beautiful horses which half the

) v

AT HIS GATES.

363

county envied, and toilettes which would have been remarked
even in the park. " That little woman is losing her head,
the Bector said, as he looked at an invitation his vnfe had just
received for a fete which was to eclipse all the others, and
which was given in celebration of Clara's birthday. It was
fixed for the 6th of July, and people were coming to it from far
and near. There was to be a garden party first, a sumptuous
so-called breakfast, and ball at night. The whole neighbour-
hood was agitated by the preparations for this solemnity. It wag
said that Ned, poor Ned, whose disappearance was now an old
story, was to be disinherited, and that Clara was to be the heir-
ess of all. The importance thus given to her birthday gave a
certain colour to the suggestion ; it was like a coming of age,
people said, and replaced the festivities which ought to have
taken place on the day when Ned completed his twenty-first
year, a day which had passed very quietly a few weekfi before,
noted by none. But to Clara's birthday feast everybody was
invited. The great county people, the Merewethers them-
selves, were coming, and in consideration of Clara's possible
iieiress-ship, it was whispered that the Marchioness had
tf//ught8 of making her son a candidate for the place deserted
by Cyril Rivers. Cyril, too, moreover, was among the guests:
he was on€ of a large party which was coming from |own ;
and the village people wen asked, the Daltonsand the Drum-
monds, beside all the lesFe;' gentry of the neighbourhood. It
was to Katie Dalton's impoifcunate beseechings, seconded, no
doubt, by her own heart, t L (h had begun to tire of seclusion
and long for a little pleaf nre, that Norah relinquished her first
proud determination net to go ; t'ld Dr. Maurice had just sent
a box from town containing two drest^es, one for the evening,
and one for out-of-doors, T/hich it was beyond the powers of
any girl of nineteen to refuse the opportunity of wearing.
When Norah had made up her owa raind to this effort, she
addressed herself to the task of overcoming her mother's reluc-
tance ; and after much labour, succeeded so far that a compro-
mise was effected. Nor?.h went to llie out-door fete, under the
charge of Mrs. Dalton, and Helen with a sigh took out her
black silk gown once more, and prepared to go with her child
in the evening. The Daltons were always there, good neigh-
bours to support and help her ; and, seated by Mrs. Dalton's

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364

AT HIS GATES.

ride, who knew something of her anxiety about that friend
whom she had not heard of for years, Mrs. Drummond felt
herself sustained. When Norah returned with the Daltons
from the garden party, Mr. Bivers accompanied the girls. He
came with them to the door of the Gatehouse, where Katie,
secretly held fast by Norah, accompanied her friend. He
lingered on the white steps, waiting to be asked ii: ; but Norah
gave no such invitation. She went back to her mother tri-
umphant, full of angry delight.

" I have been perfectly civil to him, mamma ! I have taken
the greatest care — I have not avoided him, nor been stiff to him,
nor anything. And he has tried so very hard, to have an expla-
nation. Very likely ! as if I would listen to any explanation."

" How did you avoid it, Norah, if you were neither angry nor
stiff r

" Katie, mamma, always Katie ! I put her between him and
me wherever we went. It was fun," cried Norah, with eyes
that sparkled with revengeful satisfaction. Her spirits had
risen to the highest point. She had regained her position ; she
had got the upper hand, which Norah loved. The prospect of
the evening which was still before her, in which she should
wear that prettiest ball-dress, which surely had been made by
the fairies, and drag Cyril Rivers at her chariot-wheels, and
show him triumphantly how little it mattered to her, made
Norah radiant. She rushed in to the Haldanes' side of the
house to show herself, in the wildest spirits. Mrs. Haldane
and Miss Jane— wonder of wonders — were going too ; every-
body was to be there. The humble people were asked to
behold and ratify the triumph, as well as the fine people to
make it. As for Mrs. Haldane, she disapproved, and was a
great deal more grim than ordinary ; but, for once in a way,
because it would be a great thing to see, and because Mr. Bald-
win and his sisters were to be there too, — " as much out of
their proper place as we," she said, shaking her head — she had
allowed herself to be persuaded. Miss Jane required no per-
suading. She was honestly delighted to have a chance of
seeing anything — the dresses and the diamonds, and Norah
dancing with all the grandees. When Norah came in, all in a
cloud of tulle and lace. Miss Jane fairly screamed with delight.
*♦ I am quite happy to think I shall see the child have one

AT HIS GATES.

365

good ," she said, walking round and round the fairy

princ " "Were you fond of dancing yourself, Miss Jane 1"

said X . orah, not without the laugh of youth over so droll an
idea. But it was not droll to Miss Jane ; she put her hands,
which were clothed in black with mittens, on the child's
shoulders, and gave her a kiss, and answered not a word.
And Stephen looked on from that immovable silent post of his,
and saw them both, and thought of the past and the present,
and all the shadowy uncertain days that were to come. How
strange to think of the time when Miss Jane, so grave and
prosaic in her old-maidish gown, had been like Norah ! How
wonderful to think that Norah one day might be as Miss Jane !
And so they all went away to the ball together, and Stephen in
his chair immovable till his nurses came back, and Susan bust-
ling about in the kitchen, were left in the house alone.

One ball is like another ; and except that the Dura ball was
more splendid, more profuse in ornament, gayer in banks of
flowers, richer in beautiful dresses and finery, more ambitious
in music than any ball ever known before in the county, there
is little that could be said of it to distinguish it from all others,
except, perhaps, the curious fact that the master of the house
was not present. He had not been visible all day. He had
been telegraphed for to go to town that morning and had not
returned; but then Mr. Golden, who was a far more useful man
in a ball-room than the master of the house, was present, and
was doing all thai, became a man to make everything go oflF
brilliantly. He was the slave of the young heroine of the feast to
whom everybody was paying homage ; and it was remarked
by a great many people, that even when going on the arm of
Lord Merewether to open the ball, Clara had a suggestion to
whisper to this amateur major-domo. " He is such an old friend,
lie is just the same as papa," she said to her partner with a pass-
ing blush ; but then Clara was in uncommonly brilliant looks
that evening, even for her. Her beautiful colour kept coming
and going ; there was an air of emotion, and almost agitation
about her, which gave a charm to her usually unemotional style
of beauty. Lord Merewether, who was under his mother's
orders to be " very attentive," almost fell in love with Clara, in
excess of his instructions, when he noticed this unusual fluctua-
tion of colour and tone. It supplied just what she wanted, and

dee

AT HtS GATES.

''.til.: %.\1

made the Rubens into a goddess — or so at least this young man
thought: 'i

But Helen had not been above an hour in this gay scene when
a strange restlessness seized upon her. She did her best to
struggle against it ; she tried hard to represent to herself that
nothing could have happened at home, no post could have come
in nnce she left it, and that Norah needed her there. She saw
Mr. Rivers hovering about with his explanation on his lips try-
ing to get at her, since Norah would have nothing to say to
him ; and felt that it was her duty to remain by her child at
such a moment But, after a while, her nerves, or her imagina-
tion, or some incomprehensible influence was too much for her.
" You look as if you would laint," Mrs. Dalton, whispered to
her, " Let Mr. Dalton take you to the air— let Charlie get you
something ; I am sure you .are ill/' \

" I am not ill ; but I must get home. I am wanted at
home," said H?len with her brain swimming. How it was
that she did it, she never could tell afterwards ; but she
managed to retain command of herself, to recommend Norah to
Mrs. Dalton's care, and finally to steal out ; no one noticing
her in the commotion and movement that were always going
on. When she got into the open air with her shawl wrapped
about her, her semies came back. It was foolish, it was absurd
•^but the deed was done ; and though her restlessness calmed
down when she stepped out into the calm of the summer night
it was easier then to go on than to go back ; and Norah was in
safe hands. It was a moonlight night, as is indispensable for
any great gathering in the country. To be sure it was July,
and before the guests went home, the short night would be
over ; but still according to habit, a moonlight night had been
selected . Is was soft and warm, and hazy — the light very
mellow, and not over bright, — the scent of the flowers and the
glitter of the dew filling the air. There was so much moon,
and so much light from the house, that Helen was not afraid of
the dark avenue. She went on, relieved of her anxiety, feeling
refreshed and eased, she could not tell how, by the blowing of
the scented night-air in her face. But before she reached the
shade of the avenue, some one rushed across the lawn after her.
She turned half round to see who it was, thinking that perhaps
Charlie or Mr. Dalton had hurried after her to accompany her

AT HIS QATEd.

3«7

home. The figure, however, was not that of either. The man
came hurriedly up to her, saying, in a low but earnest tone,
" Mrs. Burton, don't take any rash step," when she, as well as
he, suddenly started. The voice informed her who spoke, and
the sight of her upturned face in the moonlight informed him
who listened, '' Mrs. Drummond !" he exclaimed. They had
not met face to face, nor exchanged words since the time when
she denounced him in the presence of Cyril Rivers in St Mary's
Road. " Mrs. Drummond," he repeated, with an uneasy laugh ;
" of all times in the world for you and me to meet !"

" I hope there is no reason why we should meet," said Helen
impetuously. " I am going away. There can be nothing that
wants saying between you and me."

" But, by Jove, there is though," he said ; " there is reason
enough, I can tell you — such news as will make the hair stand
upright on your head. Ah ! they say revenge is sweet. I shall
leave you to find it out to-morrow when everybody knows."

" What is it 1 " she asked breathlessly, and then stopped,
and went on a few steps, horrified at the thought of thus asking
information from the man she hated most. He went on along*
with her, saying nothing. He had no hat on, and the rose

his coat showed a little gleam of colour in the whitening of the
light.

" You ought to ask me, Mrs. Drummond," he said, " for re-
venge, they say, is sweet, and you would be glad to hear."

" I want no revenge," she said hurriedly ; and they entered
the gloom and the avenue side by side, the strangest pair. Her
heart began to beat and flutter — she could not tell why ; for she
feared nothing from him ; and all at once there rose up a gleam
of secret triumph in her. This man believed that Robert
Drummond was dead, knew no better. What did she care for
his news 1 if indeed she were to tell him hers !

" Well," hu said, nftui' an interval, " I see you are resolved
not to ask, so 1 will tell you. I have my revenge in it too,
Mrs. Druuimond ; this night, when they are all dancing, Burton
is oiF, with the police after him. It will be known to all the
world to-morrow. You ought to be grateful to me for telling
you that."

" Burton is off I — the police — after him !" She did not take
in the meaning of the words.

tjs^'^mgimmmmimsmmiemms*.

368

AT HIS OATBS.

** You don't believe me, perhaps — neither did his wife just
now ; or at least so she pretended ; but it is true. There was a
time when he left me to bear the brunt, now it is his turn; and
there is a ball at his house the same night 1"

She interrupted him hurriedly, " I don't know what you
mean. I cannot believe you. What has he done 1" she said.

Mr. Golden laughed ; and in the stillness his laugh sounded
strangely echoins among the trees. He turned round on his
heel, waving his hand to her. ** Only what all the rest of us
have done," he said. " Good night ; I am wanted at the ball.
I have a great deal to do to-night."

She stood for a moment where he had left her, wondering,
half paralyzed. And then she turned and went slowly down
the avenue. She felt herself shake and tremble — she could not
teU why. Was it this man's voice 1 was it his laugh ithat
sounded like something infernal? And what did it all meian 1
Helen who was a brave woman by nature, felt a flutter of fear
as she quickened her steps and went on. A ball at his
house — ^the police after him. What did it mean ? The silence
of the long leafy road was so strange and deep after all the
sound and movements ; the music pursued her from behind,
growing fainter and fainter as she went on ; the world seemed
to be all asleep, except that part of it which was making merry,
dancing, and rejoicing at Dura. And now the eagerness to get
home suddenly seized upon her again, — something must have
happened since she left; some letter; perhaps — some one —
come back.

When she got within sight of the Gatehouse, the moon was
shining right down the village street as it did when it was at the
full All was quiet, silent, asleep. No, not all. Opposite her
house, against the Bectory gates, two men were standing. As
she went up into the shadow of the lime-trees, and rang the
bell at her own door, one of them crossed the road, and came
up to her, touching his hat " Asking your pardon, ma'am,"
he said, " there is some one in your house, if you're the lady of
this house, as onerhtn't to be there."

A thrill of great terror took possession of Helen. Her heart
leapt to her mouth. "I don't understand you. Who are
you 1 And what do you want 1 " she asked, almost gasping
for breath.

AT HIS GATES.

369

" I'm a member of the detective force. I ain't ashamed 0£
my business/' said the man. " We seen him go in, me and
my mate. With your permission, ma'am, we'd like to go
through the house."

'' Go through my house at this hour ! " cried Helen. She
heard the door opened behind her, but did not turn round.
She was the guardian of the house, she alone, and of all who
were in it, be they who they might. Her wits seemed to come
to her all at once, as if she found them groping in the dark.
" Have you any authority to go into my house ? Am I obliged
to let you in 1 Have you a warrant ? '

" They've been a worriting already, ma'am, and you out,"
said Susan's voice from behind. " What business have they,
I'd like to know, in a lady's house at this hour of the night 1 "

'' Has any one come, Susan ) " Helen said.

"Not a soul."

She was standing with a candle in her hand, holding the
door half open. The night air puffed the flame ; and perhaps
it was that too that made the shadow of Susan's cap tremble
upon the panel of the door. ^

"I cannot possibly admit you at this hour," said Mrs.
Drummond. "To-morrow, if you come with any authority ;
but not to-night."

She went into her own house, and closed the door. How
still it was and dark, with Susan's candle only flickering
through the gloom ! And then Susan made a sudden clutch
at her mistress's arm. She held the candle down to Helen's
face, and peered into it, " I've atook him into my own room,"
she said.

asmmtmimsii': .Is

370

AT HIS OATKS.

iiJi: 'v' '

CHAPTER XXXVII.

I HE Gatehouse was full of long, rambling, dark passages
with mysterious closets at oach elbow of them, or curi-
ous little unused rooms — passages which had struck ter-
ror into Norah's soul when she was a child, and which even
now she thought it expedient to run through as speedily as pos-
sible, never feeling sure that she might not be caught by some
ghostly intruder behind the half-shut doors. Mrs. Drummond
followed Susan through one of these intricate winding ways.
It led to a comer room looking out upon the garden, and close
to the kitchen, which was Susan's bedchamber. For some for-
gotten reason or other there was a sort of window, three or
four broad panes of glass let into the partition wall high up be-
tween this room and the kitchen, the consequence of which waa
that Susan's room always showed a faint light to the garden.
This was her reason for taking it as the hiding-place for the
strange euest.

Mrs. Drummond went down the dark passage, feeling her-
self incapable of speech and almost of thought ; a vague won-
der why he should be so hotly pursued, and how it was that
Susan should have known this and taken it upon herself to re-
ceive and shelter one who was a stranger to her, passed through
Helen's mind. Both these things were strange and must be
inquired into hereafter, but in the meantime her heart was
beating too high with personal emotion to be able to think of
anything else. Was it possible that thus strangely, thus sud-
denly, she was to meet him again from whom she had been so
long parted! Their last inverview rushed back upon her
mind, and his appearance then. Seven years ago ! — and a man
changes altogether, becomes, people say, another being in seven
years. This thought quivered vaguely through Helen's mind.
So many thoughts went pursuing each other, swift and noise-
less as ghosts. It was not above two minutes from the time she
came into the hall until she stood at the threshold of Susan's
room ; but a whole world of questions, of reflections had hurried

AT HIS OATES.

371

through her thoughts. She trembled by intervals with a nervous
shiver. Her heart beat so violently that it seemed at once to
choke and to paralyze her. To see him again — to stand face
to face with him who had come back out of the grave — to
change her whole being — to be no more herself, no more
Norah's mother, but Robert's wife again ! Her whole frame
began to shake as with one great pulse. It was not joy, it
was not fear ; it was the wonder of it, the miracle, the stranjiw,
strange incomprehensible, incredible — Could he be there ^—
nothing more between the two who had been parted by d' ath
and silence but that < '^ed door.

Susan turned roun on her just before they reached it.
Susan, too, hard, bo. , woman, little given to emotion, was
trembling. She wiped her eyes with her apron and gave a
sniff that was almost a groan, and thrust the candle into Helen's
hand.

" Oh, don't you be hard upon him. Miss Helen as was ! "
cried Susan with a sob ; and turned and fled into her kitchen.

Helen stopped for a moment to steady herself — to steady
the light of the poor candle which, held by such agitated, un-
steady hands, was flickering wildly in her grasp. And then
she opened the door.

Some one started and rose up suddenly with a movement
which had at once fear and watchfulness in it. Her agitation
blinded her so that she could not see. She held up the light.
If her misty eyes could have made him out — and then all at
once there came a voice which made her nerves steady in a mo-
ment, calmed down her pulses, restored to her self-command.

" Helen, is it you 1 1 thought it must be my wife."

The blood rushed back to Helen's heart with an ebb as sud-
den as the flow had been, making her faint and sick. But the
revulsion of feeling was as strong, and gave her strength. The
light gave a leap in her hand as she steadied herself, and threw
a wild broken gleam upon him.

" Mr. Burton," she said, " what are you doing here 1 "

" Then the news had not come," he cried, with a certain re-
lief ; " nobody knows as yetl Well, well, tl 'ngs are not so
bad, then, as I thought."

She put the candle on the table and looked at him. He
was dressed in his morning clothes, those light- coloured sum-

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372

AT HIS GATES.

mer garments, which made his full person fuller, but i^hich at
this hour, and after the scene from which she had just come,
looked strangely disorderly and out of place. His linen was
crished and soiled, and his coat, which was of a colour and
material which showed specks and wrinkles as much asawoman's
dress, had the look of having been worn for a week night and
day. The air of the vagabond, which comes so rapidly to a
hunted man had come to him already, and mixed with his ha-
bitual air of respectability, of wealth and self-importance, in
the most curious, almost pitiful way.

*^ Tell me," she said, repeating her question almost without
knowing what she said, " why are you here 1 "

He did not answer immediately. He made an effort to put
on his usual jaunty look, to speak with his usual jocular supe-
riority. But something — ^whether it was the flickering feeble
light of the candle which showed him her face, or some instinct
of his own, which necessity had quickened into life — ^made him
aware all at once that the woman by his side was in a whirl of
mental indecision, that she was wavering between two resolves,
and that this was no time to trifle with her. In such circum-
stances sometimes a man will seize upon the best argument
which skill could select, but sometimes also in his haste and
excitement he snatches at the one which makes most against
him. He said —

" I will tell you plainly, Helen. I am as your husband was
when he went down to the river — that night."

She gave a strange and sudden cry, and turning round made
one quick step to the door. If she had not seen that Dives in
the exhibition, if she had not been in the grip of wild hope
and expectation, I think she would have gone straightway,
driven by that sudden probing of the old wound, and given
him up to his pursuers. At least that would have been her
first impulse ; but something turned her back. She turned to
him again with a sudden fire kindled in her eyes.

" It was you who drove him there," she said.

He made a little deprecating gesture with his hands, but he
did not say anything. He saw in a moment that he had made
a mistake.

" You drove him there," she repeated, " you, — and that
man ; and now you come to me and think 1 will save you — to

AT HIS GATES.

373

me, his wife. You drove him to despair, to ruin, and you
think I am to save you. Why should 1 1 What have
you done that I should help you ) You had no pity on
him ; you let him perish, you let him die. You injured me
and mine heyond the reach of recovery ; and now you put
3fOurself into my hands — with your enemies outside."

He gave a shudder, and looked at the window as if with a
thought of escape ; and then he turned round upon her, stand-
ing at bay.

" Well," he said, " you have your revenge : I am ruined too.
I don't pretend to hide it from you ; but I have no river at
hand to escape into to hide all my troubles in — but only a wo-
man to taunt me that I have tried to be kind to — and my wife
and my child dancing away close by. Listen ; that is what you
call comfort to a ruined man, is it ^ot ? ''

He pointed towards Dura as he spoke. Just then a gust of
the soft night-wind brought with it the sound of the music
from the great house, that house ablaze with gaiety, with
splendour, and light, where Clara Burton all jewelled and
crowned with flowers was dancing at this moment, while her
mother led the way to the gorgeous table where princes might
have sat down. No doubt the whole scene rose before his ima-
gination as it did before Helen's. He sat down upon Susan's
rush-bottomed chair with a short laugh. One candle flickering
in the dim place revealing all the homely furniture of the ser-
vant's bedroom. What a contrast ! what a fate ! Helen felt
as every generous mind feels, humbled before the presence of
the immediate sufferer. He had injured her, and she, per
haps, had suffered more deeply than Reginald Burton was ca-
pable of suffering ; but it was his turn now ; he had the first
place. The sorrow was his before which even kings must
bow.

While she stood there with pity stealing into her heart, he
put down his head into his hands with a gesture of utter weari-
ness.

" Whatever you are going to do," he said faintly, " let
Susan give me something to eat first. I have had nothing to
eat all day."

This appeal made an end of all Helen's enmity. It had
been deep and hot, and bitter when all was well with him —

374

AT HIS GATES.

but the first taste of revenge which Ned's disappearance gave
her had appeased Mrs. Drummond. It had been bitter, not
sweet. And now this appeal overcame all her defences. If he
had asked her to aid in his escape she might have resisted still.
But he asked her for a meal. Tears of humiliation, of pitying
shame, almost of a kind tenderness came into her eyes. God
help the man ! Had it come to this )

She turned into the kitchen, where Susan sat bolt upright
in a hard wooden chair before the fire, with her arms folded,
the mbst watchful of sentinels. They had a momentary dis-
cussion what there was to set before him, and where it was to
be served. Susan's opinion was very strongly in favour of the
kitchen.

" Those villians 'ud see the lights to the front," said Susan.
"And then Miss Norah, she'll becoming home, and folks with
her. Them p-licemen is up to everything. The shutters dbn't
close up to the very top ; and if they was to climb into one o'
the trees ! And besides, there's a fire here."

" It is too warm for a fire, Susan."

" Not for theid as is in trouble," said the woman ; and she
had her way.

Helen arranged the table with her own hands, while Susan
made up with her best skill an impromptu meal — not of the
richest or choicest, for the larder at the Gatehouse was poorly
enough supplied; but fortunately there had been something
provided for next day's dinner which was available. And
when the fugitive came into the warm kitchen — he who the
day before had made all the household miserable in Dura over
the failure of a salmi — he warmed his hands with a shiver of
returning comfort, and sniffed the poor cutlet as it cooked, and
made a wretched attempt at a joke in the sudden sense of ease
and solace that had come to him.

" He was always one for his joke, was Mr. Reginald," Susan
said with a sob ; and as for Helen, this poor pleasantry com-
pleted her prostration. The sight of him warming himself on
this July night, eating so eagerly, like a man famished, filled
her with an indescribable pity. It was not so much magnani-
mity on her part as utter failure on his. How could she lay
sins to this man's charge, who was not great enough in himself
to frighten a fly 1 The pity in her heart hurt her like an ache,
and she was ashamed.

AT HIS GATES.

375

But what was to be done t She went softly, almost stealthily
(with the strange feeling that they might hear her out of doors,
of which she was not herself aware), up to her bed room, which
was over the drawing-room, and looked out into the moonlight,
The men still kept their place opposite at the Rectory gate —
aiid now a third man, one of the Dura police, with his lantern
in his hand, joined them. Helen was a woman full of all the
natural prejudices and susceptibilities. Her pride received
such a wound by the appearance of this policeman as it would
be difficult to describe. Reginald Burton was her enemy, her
antagonist ; and yet now she remembered her cousin. The
Burtons had been of unblemished good fame in all their
branches till now. The shame which had been momentarily
thrown upon her husband had been connected with so much
anguish that Helen's pride had not been called uppermost.
But now it seized upon her. The moment the Dura police-
man appeared, it became evident to her that all the world
knew, and' the pang ran through her proud heart like a sudden
arrow. Her kindred were disgraced, her own blood, the hon-
est, good people in their graves; and Ned — poor, innocent Ned !
— at the other end of the world. The pang was so sharp that
it forced tears from !ier, though she was not given to weeping.
A policeman ! as if the man was a thief who was her own cou-
sin, of her own blood ! And then the question returned. What
was to be done 1 I don't know what horrible vision of the
culprit dragged through the street, with his ignominy visible
to the whole world, rose before Helen's imagmation. It did
not occur to her that such a capture might be very decorously,
very quietly made. She could think of nothing but the poor
ragged wretch whom she had once seen handcuffed, his clothes
all muddy with the falls he had got in struggling for his liberty,
and a policeman on either side of him. This was the only
form in which she could realise an arrest by the hands of jus-
tice. And to see the master of Dura thus dragged through
the village, with all the people around, once so obsequious,
staring with stupid, impudent wonder f Anything, anything
rather than that ! Helen ran down-stairs again, startling her-
self with the sound she made. In the quiet she could hear
the knife and fork which were still busy in the kitchen, and
the broken talk with Susan which the fugitive kept up. She

■m
m

376

AT HIS GATES.

heard him laugh, and it made her heart sick. This time she
turned to the other side, to the long passage opposite to that
which led to the kitchen, which was the way of communication
with the apartments of the Haldanes. The door there, which
was generally fastened, was open to-night, and the light was
still m Stephen's window, and he himself, for the first time for
years, had been left to this late hour in his chair. He was
seated there, very still and motionless, when Helen entered.
He had dropped asleep in his loneliness. The candles on the
table , before him threw a strange light upon the pallor of his
face, upon the closed eyes, and head thrown back. His hair
had grown grey in these seven years ; his face had refined and
softened in the long suffering, in the patient, still, leaden days
which he had lived through, making no complaint He looked
like an apostle in this awful yet gentle stillness — and he locked
as if he were dead. V

But even Mrs. Drummond's entrance was enough to rouse
him — the rustle of her dress, or perhaps even the mere sense
that there was some one near him. He opened his eyes
dreamily. ,

" Well, mother, I hope you have enjoyed it," he said with a
smile. Then suddenly becoming aware who his companion was,
" Mrs. Drummond ! I beg your pardon. What has happened V

She came and stood by him, holding out her hand, which he
took and held between his. There was a mutual pity between
these two — a sympathy which was almost tenderness. They
were so sorry for each other — so destitute of any power to help
each other 1 Most touching and close of bonds !

*' Something has happened," she said. *'Mr. Haldane, I
have come to you for your advice."

He looked up at her anxiously.

" Not Norah — not — ^any one arrived **

" Oh, no, no ; something shameful, painful, terrible. You
know what is going on at the great house. Mr. Haldane, Eeg-
inald Burton is here in Susan's kitchen, hidden, and men watch-
ing for him outside. Men — policemen! Thatis^what Imean.
And oh I what am I to do Y"

He held her hand still, and his touch kept her calm. He did
not say anything for a minute, except one low exclamation un-
der his breath.

AT HIS GATES.

377

" Sit down," he said. " You are worn out It is very
late 1"

"Past midnight. By-and-by your mother will be back.
Tell me first, while we are alone and can speak freely, what can
I dol"

" He is hiding here,'' said Stephen, " and policemen outside ?
Then he is ruined, and found out. That is what you mean.
Compose yourself, and tell me, if you can, what you know,
and what you tuish to do."

" Oh, what does my wish matter 1 " she cried. " I am ask-
ing you what is possible. I know little more than I tell you.
He is here, worn-out, miserable, ruined, and the men watching
to take him. I don't know how it has happened, why he came,
or how they found it out ; but so it is. They are there now in
front of the house. How am I to get him out 1 "

" Is that the only question 1 " Stephen asked.

She looked at him with an impatience she could not res-
train.

" What other question can there be, Mr. Haldane 1 In a few
minutes they will be back."

" But there is another question," he said. "I believe this
man has been our ruin — yours and mine — ^yours, Mrs. Drura-
mond, more fatally than mine. Golden was but one of hid in-
struments, I believe — as guilty, but not more so. He has
ruined us, and more than us "

She wrung her hands in her impatience.

" Mr. Haldane, I hear steps. We may but have a moment
more."

He put his hand upon her arm.

" Think ! " he cried. " Are we to let him go — to save him
that he may ruin others ) Is it just 9 Think what he has
made us all suffer. Is there to be no punishment for him ? "

" Oh, punishment ! " she cried. " Do you know what pun-
ishment means, when you make yourself the instrument of it 1
It means revenge ; and there is nothing so bitter, nothing so
terrible, as to see your own handiwork, and to think, * It was
not God that did this ; it was me.' "

" How can you tell ] "

" Oh, yes, I can tell. There was his son. I thought it was
a just return for all the harm he had done when his poor boy

378

AT HIS OAT£S.

I, '

^But Ned went away, and left everything. It was not my

fault ; it was not Norah's fault. Yet she had done it, and I
had wished she might. No ; no more revenge. How can I
get him away?"

" I am not so forgiving as you," he said.

Helen could not rest. She rose up from the jeat she had
drawn to his side, and went to the window. There were steps
that frightened her moving about outside, and then there was
the sound of voices.

" Come in and go over the house ! Come in at this hour of
the night ! " said a voice. It was Miss Jane's voice, brisk and
alert as usual. Helen hurried into the hall, to the door, where
she could hear what was said.

" But Jane, Jane, if anyone has got in ? A thief — ^perhaps
a murderer ! Oh, my poor Stephen ! " \\

" Nonsense, mother ! If you like to stay outside therfe, I'll
go over all the house with Susan, and let you know. Why,
Mrs. Drummond ! Here are some men who want to come in
to search for some one at this time of night."

" I have told them already they should not come in," said
Helen.

She had opened the door, and stood in front' of it with a
temerity which she scarcely felt justified in ; for how did she
know they might not rush past her, and get in before she could
stop them ? Such was her idea — such was the idea of all the
innocent people in the house. The Dura policeman was stand
ing by with his truncheon and his lantern.

" I've told 'em, mum, as it's a mistake," said that function-
ary; "and that tliis 'ere is the quietest, most respectablest
Wse— "
""- « Thanks, Wilkins," said Helen.

It was a positive comfort to her, and did her good, this sim-
ple testimony. And to think that Wilkins knew no better
than that !

"Will you keep near the house ? " she said, turning to him,
with that feeling that he was " on our side " which had once
preposessed Norah in favour of Mr. Rivers. " My daughter will
be coming back presently, and I don't want to have her an-
noyed or frightened with this story. No one except the people
who belong to it shall enter this house to-night."

AT 0IB GATES.

379

** As you please, ma'am ; but I hope you knows the penalty/'
said the detective.

Helen did not know of any penalty, nor did she care. She
was wound up to so hish a strain of excitement, that had she
been called upon to put ner arm in the place of the bolt, or do
any other futile heroic piece of resistance, she would not have
hesitated. She closed the door upon Mrs. Haldane and her
daughter, one of whom was frightened and the other excited
As they all came into the hall, Susan became visible, with her
candle in her hand, defending the passage to the kitchen.
Something ludicrous, something pathetic and tragic and terrible
was in the aspect of the house, and its guardians — ^had one
been wise enough to perceive what it meant.

" If Susan will come with me," said Miss Jane briskly, " after
that idiot of a man's romance, my mother will think we are all
going to be murdered in our beds. If Susan will come with
me, I'll go over all the house."

" We have examined ours." said Helen. " Susan, go with
Miss Jane. Mrs. Haldane, Mr. Stephen is tired, I think."

" Stephen must not be alarmed," said Mrs. Haldane with hesi-
tation. " But are you sure it is safe 1 Do you really think it
is safe ? You see, after all, when our door is open it is one
house. A man might run from one room to another. Oh,
Jane— Mrs. Dnimmond — if you will believe me, I can see a
shadpw down that passage ! Oh, my dear, you are young and
rash ! The men will know better ; let them com« in."

" I cannot allow them to come in. There is no .>iie, I assure
you, except your son, who wants your help."

" You ai^e like Jane," said the old lady ; " you are so bold
and rash. Oh, I wish I had begged them to stay all night. I
wouldn't mind giving a shilling or two. Think if Stephen
should be frightened ! Oh, yes, I am going ; but don't leave
me, dear. I couldn't be alone ; I shall be frightened of my
life."

This was how it was that Helen was in Stephen's room again
when Miss Jane came down, bustling and satisfied.

" You may make yourself perfectly easy, mother. We have
gone over. all the rooms — looked under the beds and in the
cup-boards, and there is not a ghost of anything. Poor Susan
is tired sitting up for us all ; I told her I'd wait up for Norah.

380

AT HIS OATE&

Well, now you don't ask »n^ news of the ball, Stephen. Norah
has danced the whole evening ; I have never seen her sitting
down once. Her dress is beautiful ; and as, for herself, my
dear 1 But everybody was looking their best. I don't admire
Clara Burton in a general way ; but really Clara Burton was
something splendid — ^Yes, yes, mother; of course w&must get
Stephen to bed."

** Good- niffht," said Helen, going up to him. She looked in
his face wistmlly ; but now the opportunity was over, and what
could he say ? He held her hand a moment, feeling the tremor
in it.

** Good-night," he said ; and then veiy low he added hur-
riedly, " The gate into the Dura woods — the garden door."

" Thanks," she said, with a loud throb of her heart

The excitement, the suspense, were carrying Helen fa^ be-
yond her will or intention. She had been censible of a struggle
at first whether she would not betray the fugitive. Now Her
thoughts had progressed so fast and far, that she would have
fought for him, putting even her slight strength in the way to
defend him or protect his retreat He was a man whom she
almost hated ; and yet all her thoughts were with him, won-
dering was he safe by himself, and what could be done to make
him safer still She left the Haldane's side of the house eagerly,
and hurried down the passage to the kitchen. Ho was there,
in Susan's armchair before the fire. His meal was over, and
he had turned to the fire again, and fallen into a doze. While
she was moving about in a fever of anxiety, he himself, with
his head sunk on his breast, was unconscious of his own dan-
ger. Helen, who felt incapable of either resting or sleep, stood
still and looked at him in a sort of stupor.

** Poor dear, poor dear ! " said Susan, holding up her hand in
warning, " he's been worrited and worn out, and he's dozed off
— ^the best thing he could do."

He mif^ht rest, but she could not. She went down a few
steps to the garden, and stole out into the night, cautiously
opening and closing the door. The garden wa^ walled all
round. It was a productive, wealthy garden, which, even when
the Gatehouse had been empty, was worth keeping up, and its
doors and fastenings were all in good order. There was no
chance of any one getting in by uiat side. Mrs. Drummond

AT HIS GATES.

381

stole out into the white moonlight, which suddenly surged upon
her figure, and blazoned it all over with silver, and crept round,
tremUing at every pebble she disturbed, to the unused door
which opened into the Dura woods. It had been made that
there might be a rapid means of communication between the
Gatehouse and the mansion, but it had never been used since
the Drummonds came. She had forgotten this door until
Stephen reminded her of its existence. It was partially hid
behmd a thicket of raspberry-bushes, which had ^own high
and strong in front. Fortunately, a rusty key was in the lock.
With the greatest difficulty Helen turned it, feeling as if the
sound, as it grated and resisted, raised whirlwinds of echoes all
round her, and must betrav what she was doing. Even when
it was unlocked, it took all her strength to pull it open, for she
could do no more. For one moment she pressed out into the
dark, rustling woods. Through the foliage she could see the
glance of the lights from the house and the moving flicker of
carriage-lamps going down the avenue. The music came upon
her with a sudden burst like an insult. Oh, heaven ! to think
that all this should be going on, the dancing and laughter, and
him dozing there by Susan's kitchen fire !

She paused a little in the garden, in the stillniess — not for
rest, but that she might arrange her thoughts without interrup-
tion. But there was no stillness there that night. The music
came to her on the soft wind, now lower, now louder ; the
sound of the carriage-wheels coming and going kept up a low,
continuous roll ; now and then there would come the sound of
a voice. It was still early ; only a few timid guests who feared
late hours, old people and spectators like the Haldanes, were
leaving the ball. It was in full career. The very sky seemed
flushed over Dura House, with its numberless lights.

Helen formed her plan as she crept about the garden in the
moonlight. Oh, if some kindly cloud would but rise, and veU
for a little this poor earth with its mysteries ! But all was
clear, well seen, visible ; the clear night and the blue heavens
were not pitiful, like Helen. Man is often hard upon man^
heaven knows, yet it is man only who can feel fox the troubles
of mankind.

382

AT IIIU OATJ£H.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

. <i

HILE her mother was thus occupied, Norah was tak-
ing her fill of pleasure. She "danced every dance,"
beatific fulfilment of every girlish wish in respect
to a ball. She was so young and so fresh, that this per-
petual motion filled up the measure of her desires, and left
ner little time to think. To be sure, once or twice it had come
over her that Ned, poor Ned, was not here to share in all this
delight ; and if Norah had been destitute of partners, or less
sou^t than she thought her due, no doubt her heart would
have been very heavy on account of Ned. But she haU as
many partners as any girl could desire, and she had no time to
think. She was as happy as the nieht was long. The danc-
ine was delightful to her for itself the music was delight-
ful, and the " kindness " of everybody, which was Norah's
modest, pretty synonym for the admiration she received ; and
she asked no more of heaven than this, which she was receiv-
ing such full measure. To be sure, her mother's disappear-
ance disturbed her for the moment. But when Mrs. Dalton
had sworn by all her gods that Mrs Drummond was not ill,
Norah resigned herself once more to her happy fate.

There was, at the same time, a special point which exhilar-
ated Norah, satisfied her pride, and raised her spirits. During
all the festivities of the afternoon she had kept Cyril Kivers at
arm's length. Perhaps if he had not shown so much anxiety
to approach nearer, Norah would not have felt the. same satis-
faction in this — ^but his explanation, it was evident, was hanging
on his very lips, and she had triumphantly kept him from
making it. The same process was repeated in the evening.
She had rushed into a perfect crowd oi engagements in order
to escape him. Poor Charlie Dalton, whom Clara had no
longer any thought of, and who, for the frreater part of the even-
ing had been standing about, dolefully gazing after her, was
pressed ceremoniously into Norah's service. Once when she
happened to be disengaged and saw Rivers approaching, she

• A

AT HIS GATES.

833

was so lost to all sense of shame as to seize him breathlessly by
the arm. ** Dance this dance with me, Charlie," she whisper-
ed impatiently.

" Why must I dance 1" said the poor boy, who had no heart
for it.

''Because I am determined not to dance with him," said
Norah, energetically leading off her captive. And thus she kept
the other at a distance, though perhaps she would have been
less rigid in evasion had he been more indifferent to the oppor-
tunity. It was late in the night, after supper, when he secured
her at last.

" Miss Drummond, you have avoided me all night "

" I ! " cried Norah, " but that is ridiculous. Why should I
avoid you, Mr. Rivers ] Indeed I am sure I have spoken to you
at least a dozen times this evening. It is not one's own fault
when one is engaged."

*' And I have been so anxious to see you — to explain to
you," he cried, his eagerness, and the long tantalizing delay,
having overcome his wisdom. "I have been quite miserable."

" About what, Mr. Rivers 1 "

" About what you must have thought very abominable be-
haviour — ^that day at the pictures ; fancy, it is two months
since, and you have never allowed mc a moment in which I could
say it till now ! "

" At the pictures ? " said Norah, feigning surprise. " I
don't think we have seen you very often lately, and two months
is a long time to remember. Oh, I recollect ! you left us in a
hurry."

" My mother had come to look for me — there was some
business in hand that I had to be consulted about. I cannot
tell you what a wretched ass I felt myself, dragged away with-
out a moment to explain — without even time to say, * This is
my mother.' "

" Mr. Rivers," said Norah, drawing her small person to its
full height, and loosing her hold of his arm. '' I think it would
have been good taste not to say anything about* this. When
we did not remark upon it, why should you ? I am only a girl,
I am nineteen and I never disobeyed mamma that I know of ;
but still, do you think I should have let her carry me off like a
from my friends whom I cared for, without a word %

384

AT HIS GATES.

There are some things that one ought not to be asked to believe.
You were not obliged to say anything « t all about it. I should
like to be polite, but I can't make mjbalf a fool to please you.
And, on the other hand, you know Lady Rivers is nothing to
us. I did not ask to be introduced to her, and poor mamma
was too ill even to know. Please don't say any more about it.
It would have been much better not to have mentioned it at
aU."

"But, Miss Drummond ! "

"Yes, I know. You wanted to be polite. But never
raind. I am quite, quite satisfied," said Norah with a
gleam of triumph. " Look here ! Let us have Katie for our
m-Orvis. 'Don't you think Clara Burton is looking quite beau
tiful to-night 1"

Mr. Rivers did not reply. He said to himself that he had
never been so completely snubbed in his life. He had itever
felt so small, so cowed, and that is not pleasant to a man. Her
very pardon, her condonation of his offence, was humbling to
him. Had she resented it, he had a hundred weapons with
which to meet her resentment ; but he had not one to oppose
to her frank indignation, and her pardon. And yet, with
carious perversity, never before had Norah seemed so sweet to
him. He had felt the wildest jealousy of poor Charlie during
that dance, which he went through so unwillingly ; and but for
the cheerful strains of the Lancers, which commenced at this
point, and set them all — so many who enjoyed it, so many who
did not enjoy it — in motion, it was in his mind to commit him-
self as he had never yet done, to throw himself upon
her mercy. This thought gave to his handsome face a look
which Norah in her triumph secretly enjoyed, and called
" sentimental." "But I am not one of those girls that fall
down and worship a man, and think him a demigod," Norah
said to herself. "He is no demigod ! he has not so much
courage as I have. He is frightened of — ^me ! Oh, if Ned
were but here ! " This last little private exclamation was ac-
companied with the very ghost of a sigh — half of a quarter of
a si^h, Norah would have said, had she described it — Ned was
afraid of her too, and' was not the least like a demigod. I do
not defend Norah for her sauciness, nor do I blame her ; for,
after all, the young men of the present day are very unlike de-

AT HIS GATES.

385

migods; and there are some honest girls in the world capable of
loving a man as his wife ought, without worshipping him as his
slave, and without even bowing herself down in delicious infe-
riority before him, grovelling as so many heroines do. Norah
was incapable of grovelling under any circumstances ; but then
she had been brought up by her mother, in the traditions of
womanly training such as they used to be in a world, which we
are told is past. 'i

This is the very worst place in the world for a digression,
I allow ; it is to permit of the dancing of that figure which
they were just about to commence. Clara Burton was dancing
in the same set, with Mr. Golden. And as her own partner after
this little episode was for some time anything but lively, Norah
gave her mind to the observation of Clara. Clara and Mr.
Golden were great friends. She had said to Lord Merewether
that he was like papa, but it may be doubted whether papas
generally, even when most indulgent, are looked up to by their
children as Clara looked up to her father's friend. All Dura
had remarked upon it before now ; all Dura had wondered, did
the parents see it 1 "What did Mrs. Burton mean by permitting
it ? But it never once entered iato Mrs Burton's cool, clever
Httle head to fancy it possible that the attractions of such a
man could move her child. Every body in the neighbourhood,
except those most concerned, had seen Clara wandering with
this man, who was nearly as old as her father, through the
Dura woods. Everybody had seen the flushed, eager, tender
way in which she hung upon him, and looked up to him ;
and his constant devotion to her. " If I were you I should
speak to Mr. Burton about it," the rector's wife had said half a
dozen times over ; but the rector had that constitutional dislike
to interfere in anything, which is peculiar to Englishmen. That
night Clara was beautiful, as Norah had said ; she was full of
agitation and excitement—even of something which looked like
feeling ; her colour was splendid, her blue eyes as blue as the
sea when it is stirred, her hair like masses of living gold, her
complexion like the flushings of the sunset upon snow. As for
her partner, a certain air of warning mingled in his assiduity.
Once Norah saw him hold up his finger, as if in remonstrance.
He was wary, watchful, observant of the glances round him ;
but Clara, who never restrained herself, put on no trammels to-

386

AT HIS GATES.

night. She stood looking up at him, talking to him incessant-
ly* forgetting the dance, and, when she was compelled to re-
member it, hurrying through the figure that she might resume
the intermitted conversation. Gradually the attention of the
other dancers became concentrated on her. It was her moment
of triumph, no doubt — ^her birthday, her coming of«,ge as it
were, though she was but eighteen — her entry, many people
thought, into the glory of heiress-ship. But all this was not
enough to account for the intoxication of excitement, the pas-
sion that blazed in Clara's eyes. What did it mean ? When
the dance was over, the majority of the dancers made their way
into the coolness of the conservatory, which was lighted with
soft lamps. Mr. Rivers took Norah back to Mrs. Dalton.
His dark eyes had grown larger, his air more sentimental than
ever. He withdrew a little way apart, and folded his arms, (and
stood gazing at her, just, Norah reflected with impatience, &s a
man would do who was the hero in a novel. But very different
ideas were in Norah's mind. She seized upon Charlie once
more, who was sentimental too. " Come out on the terrace
with me. I want to speak to Clara," she said. They were
stopped just inside the open window by a stream of people com-
ing in for the next dance. Norah had been pushed close to the
window, half in half out, by the throng. This was how she
happened to hear the whispered talk of a pair outside, who
were close by her without knowing it, and whom nobody else
oould hear.

" At the top of the avenue, at three o'clock. Wrap a cloak
round you, my darling. In the string of carriages ours will
never be noticed. It is the best plan."

f^ " And everything is ready 1" asked another voice, which was
Clara's.

" Everything, my love ! In an hour and a half "

" For you ! I could do it only for you !"

In a minute after the two came in, pushing past Norai. and
her companion, who, both pale as statues, let them pass. The
others were not pale. Clara's face was dyed with* vivid colour,
and Mr. Golden, bending over her, looked almost young in the
glow of animation and admiration with which he gazed at her.
Charlie Dalton had not heard the scrap of dialogue, which
meant so mnoh \ but he ground his teeth and stared at las sup-

AT HIS GATES.

387

to re-
esume
of the
loment
re as it
people
vas not
hepas-

When
eir way
jd with
Dalton.
}al than
[ns,\and
[ce, ^ a
lifferent
Lie once

terrace
ley were

►le com-
to the
how she
de, who
lody else

) a cloak
)ur8 will

hich was
>»

planter, and crushed Norah's hand which held his arm. " That
fellow !"■ Charlie said between his teeth. " Had it been some
one else, I could have borne it."

" Oh, Charlie, take me back to your mother," cried Norah.
Her thoughts went like the wind ; already she had made out
her plan — bnt what was the use of saying anything to him,
poor simpleton, to make him more unhappy 1 Norah went
back, and placed herself by Mrs. Dalton's side. "I do not
mean to dance any more. I am tired," she said ; and, though
the music tempted her, and her poor little feet danced in spite
of her, keeping time on the floor, she did not change her resolu-
tion. Mr. Rivers came, finding the opportunity he sou&;ht ;
but Norah paid no heed to him. The men whose names were
written upon her card came too, in anxiety and dismay. " But
to all, she had the same answer. *' I am tired. I shall dance
no more to-night."

" Let me look at you, child," said kind Mrs. Dalton ; " in-
deed you look tired — you look as if you had seen a ghost."

" And so I have," said Norah. She felt as if she must cry ;
Clara Burton had been her playfellow, almost her sister, as
near to her as Katie, and as much beloved. What was it Clara
was going to do 1 The child shivered in her terror. When
the dancers were all in full career once more, Norah put her
mouth close to Mrs. Daiton's ear and whispered forth her story.
" What can we do t What shall we do ?" she asked. It
would be impossible to describe Mrs. Dalton's consternation.
She remonstrated, struggled against the idea, protested that
there must be some mistake. But still Norah asked, " What
can we do 1 what can we do ?"

" My dear Norah ! see, they are not near each other — they
are not looking at each other. You have made a mistake."

" Why should they look at each other 1 Everything is ar-
ranged and settled," said Norah. " Mrs. Dalton, if you will
not come with me, I will go myself. Clara must not be allowed
to go. Oh, only think of it ! Clara, one of us ! I have made
up my plan ; and if you will not come, I will go myself."

" Norah, where will you go ? What can you do~a child 1
And, oh, how can I go after Clara and leave the girls 1 replied
Mrs. Dalton in her distress.

You can leave them with Charlie," said Norah, It had

((

388

AT HIS GATES.

struck two before this explanation was made, and already a
few additional guests had begun to depart. There was very
little time to lose. Before Mrs. Dalton was aware she fotind
herself hurried into the cloak- room, wrapped in some wrap
which was not hers, and out under the moonlight again,
scarcely knowing how she got there.

" This is not my cloak, Norah," she said piteously ; " my
cloak was white."

" Never mind, dear Mrs. Dalton ; white would have been
seen," said Norah, who was far too much excited to think of
larceny. And then, impetuous as a little sprite, she led her
friend round the farther side of the lawn, and placed her under
the shadow of a clump of evergreens. " There is a brougham
standing there which never budges," whispered Norah, " With
a white horse. I have seen him driving a white horse. Now
stand very still. Oh, do stand still, please !" ^

" But, Norah I see no one. It is Mrs. Ashurst's old white
horse j it is the fly from the Inn. Norah, it is very cold.
Our carraige will be coming. If it comes while we are
gone- "

Norah grasped her tremulous companion by the arm. " You
would go barefoot from here to London," she said in her ear,
with a voice which was husky with excitement. " To save
anyone, you know you would ; and this is Clara — Clara !"

Some one came rapidly across the grass — a dark, veiled,
hooded figure, keeping in the shadow. The morning was
breaking in the east and mingled mysteriously with the moon-
light, making a i/veird paleness all about among the dark trees
and bushes. There was such a noise and ceaseless roll of car-
riages passing, of servants waiting about, of impatient horses,
pawing and tossing their heads, that the very air was full of
confusion. Mrs. Dalton s alarm was undescribable. She held
back the impetuous girl by her side, who was rushing upon
that new-comer. " Norah ! it is some lady looking for her
carriage. Norah ! "

Norah paid no heed ; she rushed forward, and laid hold
upon the lon^ grey cloak in which the new-comer was muffled.
" Clara !" she cried. ** Oh, Clara ! stop, stop ! and come
back."

At this moment there suddenly appeared among .them

( «.

AT HIS OATE&

389

another figure, in an overcoat, with ^ soft felt hat slouched
over his face, who took Clara hy the hand and whispered,
" Quick ! there is not a moment to lose.''

" Is it you, Norah V said Clara from under her cloak.
" You spy ! you prying inquisitive — 1 Go back yourself.
You have nothing to do with me."

" Oh, Clara !" cried the other girl, clasping her hands ;
" don't go away like this. It is almost morning. They will
see you — ^in your ball dress. Clara, Clara, dear ! Hate me if
you like — only, for heaven's sake, come back,"

And now Mrs. Dalton crept out from the shadow of the
bushes. " Mr. Golden, leave her. Let her go. How dare
you over persuade a child like that 1 Let her go, or I will
call out to stop you. Clara !" .

He pushed them apart— one to one side, one to the other.
*' Quick !" he cried with a low call to a servant who stood
close by. " Quick, Clara ! don't lose a moment." he had
pushed them aside roughly, and stood guarding her retreat,
facing round upon them. " What is it to you," he said, "If
I am employed to take Miss Burton to her father 1 You may
call any one you please — you may go and tell her mother. I
am coming — now, for your life !"

The brougham dashed off with dangerous speed, charging, as
it seemed, into the mass of carriages. There was a tumult and
trampling of horses, a cry as of some one hurt ; but all that the
two terrified woman on the lawn saw was Clara's face looking
back at them from the carriage window, with an insolent
triumphant look. She had partially thrown off her cloak, and
appeared from under it in her white dress, a beautiful,
strange vision — and then there came the sound of the collision
and conflict, and the struggles of horses, and the cry. But
whoever was wounded, it was not anybody belonging to that
equipage. The white horse could be traced down the avenue
like a long, lessening streak of light. So far, at least, the
scheme, had been successful. They were gone.

Norah could not speak ; she walked about upon the lawn,

among the servants, wringing her hands. The morning dew,

which was begining to fall, shone wet upon her hair. " What

can we do — what can we do V she cried,

" My dear child, we have done all we can. Oh, that foolish,

390

AT HIS GATES.

foolish girl I Norah, your feet must be wet, and so I am sure
are mine ; and your pretty white tarlatan all spoiled. Oh,
heaven help us ! is this what it has all come to 1 I dare not

send Charlie after them. Norah run and call Mr. Dalton. He
might go, perhaps. Norah, oh, you must not go alone," cried
the rector's wife.

But Norah was gone. She rushed into the house, through
all the depaiting guests, her cloak and her hair all wet with
dew. She made her way into the ball-room in that plight, and
rushed up to Mr. Dalton, and led him alarmed out into the hall.
Mrs. Dalton had followed, and was slowly gathering up her
dress. Her heart was full of dismay and trouble j that Clara
should thus destroy herself — break her parents* hearts ! and
Norah must certainly have spoilt her pretty new dress. " One
would not have minded, had it done any good," she murmul*ed
within herself. When they met the rector in the hall, a
hurried consultation ensued.

" Take our fly, George," said Mrs. Dalton heroically. " We
can get home somehow. Take it ! They cannot be very far
gone — you may overtake them yet."

" Overtake them ! though I don't even know which way
they have gone," said the rector, fretful with this strange mis-
sion. But, all the same, he went off, and hunted out the fly,
and offered the driver half a sovereign if he could overtake the
brougham with a white horse. But everything retarded Mr.
Dalton. His horse was but a fly-horse, not the most lively of
his kind. The man had been drinking Miss Burton's health,
and was more disposed to continue that exercise than to gallop
vaguely about the roads, even with the promise of an additional
half sovereign ; Mrs. Dalton, in the meanwhile, threw off her
borrowed cloak, and went into the almost deserted ball-room
in search of the mistress of the house ; and Mary and Katie,
wondering and shivering, standing close to Charlie, who was
their protector for the moment, made a group round Norah in
the hall, with the daylight every moment brightening over their
faces, weariness stealing over them, and mystery ^^oppressing
them, and no appearance of either father or mother, or the fly !

Norah leant against Katie's shoulder and cried. After all her
impetuous exertions the reaction was sharp. She wouldn't give
any explanation, but leant on her friend, and cried, and shivered.

AT HtS OATEd.

891

" Oh, where can mamma be 1 Where is the fly 1 Oh, Norah,
have my cloak too ; I don't want it. How cold you are !
Charlie, run and look for the fly," cried Katie. They stood all
clinging together, while the people streamed past, getting into
their carriages, going away. The d-iylight grew clearer, the
sun began to rise, while still they stood there forlorn. And
what with weariness, what with wonder and anxiety and vexa-
tion, Mary and Katie were almost crying too.

Finally Mrs. Dalton appeared, when almost all the guests were
gone, with a flush on her kind face, and an energy which triumph-
ed over her weariness. " Come, children, we must pluck up our
courage and walk," «he gaid. "Take up your dresses, girls, and
help Norah with hers. Poor child, perhaps the walk will be
the best thing for her. It is of no use waiting for the fly."

Here Charlie came back to report that the fly was nowhere
visible, but that some one who had been knocked down by a
runaway horse was being carried up to the house, much in-
jured. " A white horse in a brougham. They say it took
fright, and dashed down the avenue ; and they are afraid the
man is badly hurt," said Charlie. The ladies shuddered as the
poor fellow was carried past them, his head bound round with
a handkerchief stained with blood. They were the last to
leave, and came down the steps just as this figure was being
carried in. It was broad daylight now, and they all felt guilty
and miserable in their ball dresses. This was how the last
ball ended which was given by the Burtons in Dura House.

They walked down weary, feeling some weight upon them
which the majority of the party did not understand, all the
length of the leafy avenue, where the birds were singing, and
the new morning sending arrows of gold. The fly, with Mr.
Dalton in it, very tired and fretful, met them at the gate. He
had not so much as come within sight of the brougham with
the white horse. But yet he was ready to go up to the ^eat
house as duty demanded, to put himself at the service of its
mistress. Charlie, enlightened all in a moment as to the mean-
ing of the night's proceedings, went with him, like a ghost of
misery and wrath. The girls and the mother went home alone
through th« sunshine. And the echoes grew still about that
centre of tumult and rejoicing. The rejoicing had ended now ;
and, with that feast, the reign of the Burtons at Dura had come
to an end.

392

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

SUMMER night passes quickly to those who have need
of darkness for their movements. When Mrs. Drum-
moud found herself at liberty to carry out the plan she
had formed, the time before her was very short. She went
back to the kitchen, and called Susan to her. Mr. Burton
woke up as she came in, and they had a hurried consultation ;
the consequence of which was that Susan was sent to the sta-
bles, which were not very far from the garden door of the
Gatehouse, to order a carriage to be dispatched instantly to
pick up Mr. Burton at the North-gate, two miles off, in l^he
opposite direction from the village. He could walk thus
through the grounds by paths he was familiar with, and drive
to a station five miles further off on another railway. So
readily do even innocence and ignorance fall into the shifty
ways of guilt that this was Helen's plan. He was to wait here
till Susan returned, and the experiment of her going would be
a proof if the way was quite safe for him. When Susan was
gone Mrs. Drummond returned alone to where her guest sat
before the kitchen fire. She had her blotting book under her
arm, and an inkstand in her hand. ** Before you go," she said
in a low voice, " I want you to do something for me."

" I will do anything for you," he cried — " anything 1 Helen,
I have not deserved it. You might have treated me very dif-
ferently. You have been my salvation."

" Hush ! " she said. His thanks recalled her old feelings of
distrust and dislike rather than the new ones of pity. She
put down [her writing things on the table. I have my condi-
tions as well as other people," she said. ** I want now to know
the truth."

"What truth?" ^

" About Rivers's," she said.

"Helen!"

" It is useless for you to resist or deny me," she replied,
" you are in my power. I am willing to do everything to serve

▲T Bis OATfi&

dds

you, but I will have a full explanation. Write it how you
please — ^but you shall not leave this place till you have given me
the means, when I please and how I please, of proving the
truth."

*^What is the truth, as you call it?" he said sullenly;
" what have I to do with it 1 Drummond and the rest went
into it with their eyes open ; all the accounts of the concern
were open to them."

** I do not pretend to understand it/' said Helen. ** But
you do. Here are pens and paper. I insist upon a full expla-
nation — how it was that so flourishing a business perished in
three years ; where those books went to, which Robert was so
falsely accused of destroying. Oh, are you not afraid to tire
out my patience ? Do you know that you are in my power % **

He gave an alarmed look at her. He had foreotten everything
but those fables about feminine weakness which are current
among such men, and had half laughed in his sleeve half an
hour before at her readiness to help and serve him. But now
all at once he perceived that laughter was out of place, and
there was no time to lose. The reflection that ran through his
mind was— All must come out in a week or two — it will do
her no good ; but it can do me no harm. " If I am to give an
account of the whole histoiy it will take me hours," he said.
" I may as well give up all thought of getting awav to-night."
But he drew the blottmg-book towards him. Helen did not
relax nor falter. She lighted another, candle ; she left him to
himself with a serious belief in his good faith which startled
him. She moved about the kitchen while he wrote, filling a
small flask with wine out of the solitary bottle which had been
brought out for his refreshment, and which represented the en-
tire cellar of the Gratehouse — even brushing the coat which he
had thrown aside, that it might be ready for him. The man
watched her with the wonder of an inferior nature. He had
loved her once, and it had given him a true pleasure to humble
her when the moment came. But now the ascendancy had re-
turned into her hands. Had he been in her place how he would
have triumphed ! But Helen did not triumph. His misery
did not please, it bowed her down to the ground. She was sad
— suffering for him, ashamed, anxious. He did not understand
it. Gradually, he could not have told how, her look affected

394

AT HIS GATES.

him. He tore up the first statement he had cotntnenced, d,
florid, apologetic narrative. He tore up the second, in which
he threw the blame upon the ignorance of business of poor
Drummond and his fellow-directors. Finally he was moved so
strangely out of himself that he wrote the simple truth, and
no more, without a word of apology or explanation. * Half-a-
dozen lines were enough- for that. The apology would, as he
said have taken hours.

And then Susan came back. By this time he had written
not only the explanation required of him, but a letter to his
wife, and was ready to try his fate once more. Helen herself
went with him to the garden door; the path through the
woods was dark, hidden from the moonlight by the close copses
and high fenc^, which it skirted for many a mile. And there
would not be daylight to betray him for at least an hour. He
stood on the verge of the dark wood, and took her halnd.
** Helen, you have saved me ; God bless you," he said. And
in a moment this strange episode was over, as though it had
never been. She stood under the rustling trees, and listened
to his footsteps. The night wind blew chill in her face, the
dark boughs swayed round her as if catching at her garments.
A hundred little crackling sounds, echoes, movemetits among
the copse, all the jars and broken tones of nature that startle
the fugitive, made her heart beat with terror. If she had felt
a hand on her shoulder, seizing her instead of him, Helen
would not have been surprised. But while she stood and lis-
tened all the sounds seemed to die away in the stillness of the
night. And the broad moonlight shone, silvering the black
trees, out of which all individuality had fled, and the music
from Dura came back in b^ gust, and the roll of the carriages
slowly moving about the avenue, waiting for the dancers. And
but that Helen stood in so unusual a spot, with that garden
dooi" half open behind her, and the big key in her hand, she
might have thought that all this Was nothing more than a
dream.

She went in, and locked the door ; and then Returned to
Susan's kitchen. It was her turn now to feel the cold, after
her excitement was over ; she went in shivering, and drew
close to the fire. She put her head down into her hands. The
tears came to her eyes unawares ; weariness had come upon

AT HIS 0ATB8.

398'

her all at once, when the necessity of exertion was over. She
held in her hand the paper she had made Burton write, hut she
had not energy enough to look at it. Would it ever be of any
use to hcrf Would he whom it concerned ever return)
Or was all this — the picture, the visit to the Exhibition, the
sudden conviction which had seized upon her — were these all
so many delusions in her dream ? After a while Miss Jane, all
unconscious, excited with her unusual pleasure, and full of
everything she had seen, came and sat by her and talked. " I
told Susan to go to bed," said Miss Jane ; " and I wish you
would go too, Mrs. Drummond. I will sit up for Norah. Oh,
how proud I was of that child to-night I I suppose it's very
wrong, you know — so my mother says — but I can't help it. It
is just as well I am a single woman, and have no children of
my own; for I should have been a fool about them. The
worst of all is that we shan't keep her long. She will many,
and then what shall we do ? I am sure to lose her would
break Stephen's heart."

" She is very young," said Helen, who answered for civility's
sake alone, and who with all the heavy thoughts in her heart
and apprehensions for the fugitive, would have given much to
be left to herself.

" Yei^, she is young ; but not too young to do a great deal of
mischief. When I saw all those men on their knees before
her ! " cried Miss Jane, with a laugh of triumph. She had
never been an object of much admiration or homage herself;
men had not gone on their knees to her, though no doubt she
was more worthy than many of the foolish creatures who have
been so worshipped ; but the result of this was that MiBS Jane
enjoyed heartily the revenge which other women had it in
their power to take for all the slights and scorns to which she
and her homely sisters had been subjected. She liked to see
" them " punished, though " they " were an innocent, new
generation, blameless, so far as she was concerned. She would
not have injured a fly ; but her face beamed all over with de-
light at the thought that it was Norah's mission to break
hearts.

Thus the good soul sat and talked, while Helen listened to
every sound, and wondered where he was now ? what might
be happening 1 She did not even hear what was being said

896

▲T HIS 0ATS8.

to her until Miss Jane fellinto a moralisins vein. ** The Bur-
tons are at the height of their splendour now/' she said. " I never
saw anything so grand as it was. I don't think anything could
bo grander. But oh, Mrs. Drummond, people's sins find them
out. ' There's Olara getting bewitched by that man ; everybody
could see it. A man old enough to be her father, without a
scrap of character, and no money even, I suppose. Think of
that I and oh, what will all their grandeur do for them, with
Ned at the other end of the world, and Clara throwing herself
away 1 ''

'*0h, hush, hush 1" cried Helen. "Don't prophesy any more
misfortune ; there is enough without that."

And five minutes after i^orah came to the door, surrounded
by the party from the Kectory, all pale and terror-stricken,
with the news which they felt to be so terrible. '* Olara ^
gone away ! " They stood at the door and told this tale, hud-
dled together in the fresh sunshine, the eirls crying, the elder
women asking each other, *<what would the Burtons do)"
" She was almost rude to me. She sent me away," Mrs. Dal-
ton said, ** or I should have stayed with her. And Mr. Burton
is not there 1 What will she do 1" They could scarcely make
up their minds to separate, worn out ana miserable as they all
were. And, opposite, in the morning sunshine, two men still
watched the Gatehouse, as they had watched it all through the
night.

These miseries all ended in a misery which was comic, had
any of them had heart enough left to laugh. While she helped
to undress Norah, Miss Jane suddenly uttered a scream, which
made Helen tremble from head to foot. She had caught in
her hands the pretty flounces of that white dress, that lovely
dress. Dr. Maunce's present, which had turned poor little Cin-
derella-Norah — ^into an enchanted princess ; but now, alas, all
limp, damp, ruined ! even stained with the dewy grass and
gravel across which it had come. Miss Jane could have cried
with vexation and dismay. This was the climax of all the
agonies of that wonderful night ; but, fortunately, \t was not
so hopeless as the others. An hour later, when the house was
all silent, and even Helen lay with her eyes shut, longing to
sleep. Miss Jane stole down stairs again, carrying this melan-
choly garment on her arm. She went to Susan's kitchen, where

IT HIS GATES.

897

the fire was still burning, and spreading it oat upon the big
table, took it to pieces to see what could be done. And then
she made a discovery which drew from her a cry of joy. The
dress was grenadine^ not tarlatan ! Dear, ignorant reader, per-
haps you do not know what this means ) but well did Miss Jane
understand. " Grenadine will wash ! "she said to hei'self tri-
umphantly. She was a clever woman, and she was not uncon-
scious of the fact. She could wash and starch with any pro-
fessional. Accordingly, she set to work with scissors and soap
and starch and hot irons; but, above all, with love — ^love
which makes the fingers cunning and the courage strong.

Mr. Burton made his escape safely. He had reached the
North-gate before the dog-cart did, which came up for him just
as the morning was breaking. With this delav it so happened
that when he reached the station to which he was bound, a
brougham with a white horse appeared in sight behind, and
gave him a thrill of terror; it was not a likely vehicle certainly
for his pursuers ; but still it was possible that they might have
found nothing more suitable had they got scent of him at Dura.
He sprang out of the dog-cart accordingly, and took refuge in
one of the comers of the station. It was a junction, and two
early morning trains, one up and one down, passed between
four and five o'clock. Both parties accordingly had some time
to wait. Mr. Burton skulking behind anything that would
shelter him, made out, to his great amazement, that the other
traveller waiting about was his friend Golden, accompanied by
a cloaked and veiled woman. The fugitive grinned in ghastly
satisfaction when he saw it. He had no desire just then to
encounter Golden, and in such companionship he was safe. It
was a lovely morning, fresh and soft, cooler than July usually
is, and the pair on the platform walked about in the sun, bask-
ing in it. He watched them from behind a line of empty car-
riages. The woman, whoever she was, clung close to her com-
panion, holding his arm clasped with both her hands ; while
Golden bent over her, with his face close to her veil. ** I won-
der who she is 1 I wonder what they are doing here at this
hour ] I wonder if he has been to Dura i And, by Jove, to
think of his going in for that sort of thing, as if he were tive-
and-twenty ! Mr. Burton said to himself. He was full of
curiosity, almost to amazement, and be longed to go and sun

AT HIS OATSS.

)iimself on that same platform too ; but he was a fugitive, and
he dared not. How could he tell who might be about, or what
Golden's feelings were towards him 1 They had been very
good friends onoe ; but Burton had stood by Golden but feebly
at the time of the trial about Rivers's, and Golden had not
stood by Burton warmly during the time of difficulty which
had culminated in ruin. He watched them with growing curi-
osity, with a kind of interest which he could not understand —
with — ^yes, hd could not deny it, with a curious wistfulness and
envy. He supposed the fallow was happy like that, now?
And as for himself, he was not happy — he was cold, weary,
anxious, afraid. He had a prison before him, perhaps a fel-
on's sentence — anyhow, at the least, a loud, hoarse roar of
English society and the newspapers. If he could but succeed
in putting the Channel between him and them ! and there was
that other man, as guilty as himself, perhaps more guilty (Mfor
he had not my temptations," Mr. Burton said to himself ; '' he
had not a position to keep up, an expensive establishment, a
family") sunning himself in the full morning light, waiting for
his train in the eye of day, not afraid of anybody — ^nay, pro-
bably at the height of pleasure and success, enjoying himself as
a young man enjoys himself ! When the pair approached a
little closer to his hiding-place than they had yet done. Burton,
in his haste to get out of the way, slipped his foot, and fell
upon the cold iron rails. He rose with a curse in his heart,
the poignancy of the contrast was too much for him. Had he
but knoAvn that his appearance would have confounded his old
IHend, and set all his plans to nought ! Could he but have
imagined who it was that clung to Golden's arm !

But he did not. He saw the up-train arrive, and the two

Set into it. He had meant to go that way himself, feeling Lon-
on, of all refuges, the most safe ; but he had not courage to
venture now. He waited for the other train going down into
the country. He made a rapid calculation how ho could shape
his course to the sea, and get off, if not as directly, perhaps
more securely. He had found a dark overcoat in tjie dog-cart,
which was a boon to him ; he had poor Helen's flask of wine
in his ppcket. And as he got into the train, and dashed away
out of the station and over the silent, sunshiny country,
where safety lay, Golden and Golden's companion went out of

AT HIS GATES.

399

Mr. Burton's mind. He had a hundred tbines to think of, an4
yet a hundred more. Why should he trouble himself about
that?

Thus the night disappeared like a mist from the face of the
world; and the 7th of July, an ordinary working day like the
others, Saturday the end of a common week — rose up business-
like and usual upon a host of toiling folk, to whom the sight of
it was sweet for the sake of the resting day that came after it.
Old Ann from Dura Den, drove her cart with the vegetables,
and the big posy for the sick gentleman, under Stephen's
window, and wondered that it should still be closed, though it
was ten o'clock. Susan, very heavy-eyed and pale, was cleans-
ing and whitening her steps, upon which there had been so
many footsteps last night.

" Well, Susan, you are late," said old Ann."

" Our folks were all at that ball last night," said Susan,
" keeping a body up, awaiting for 'em till morning light."

"Well, well, young folks must have their diversions. We
was fond of 'em oursels once on a day," said the charitable old
woman.

Across the road the blinds were still down in the Kectory.
the young people were all asleep ; and even the elder people
had been overcome with weariness and the excitement through
which, more or less, all of them had gone. Before old Ann's
cart resumed its progress, however, Stephen's window had been
opened, and signs of life began to appear. About eleven Mrs.
Drummond came down-stairs. She had slept for an hour, and
on waking had felt assured that she must have been dreaming,
and that all her vision of the night was a delusion ; but her
head ached so, and her face was so pale when she looked at
herself in the glass, that Helen trembled and asked herself if
this was the beginning of a fever. Something must have hap-
pened — it could not all be a dream. She knelt down to saj[
her prayers in front of the table, where her picture, her idol)
was. And then she saw a paper, placed upright beneath it, as
flowers might be put at a shrine. She read it then, for the
first time, on her knees. It was the paper that Reginald Bur-
ton had written, which she had taken from him in her weari-
ness without being able to read it. Half-a-dozen lines, no
more. She did not understand it now \ but it was enough, it,

400

AT HIS GATES.

was final. No one, after this could throw reproach or scorn
upon her Robert's name.

Eobert ! This night had been like a year, like a lifetime.
It had made her forget Now she knelt there, and everything
came back to her. She did not say her prayers ; the attitude
sometimes is all that the heavy laden are capable of ; of itself
that attitude is an appeal to God, such as a child might make
who plucked at its mother's dress to attract her notice, and look-
ed up to her, though it could find no words to say. Not a word
came to Helen's lips. She knelt and recollected, and thought
— ^her inind was in a whirl, yet it was silent; not even forming
a wish. It was as if she held her breath and gazed upon some-
thins which had taken place before her, something with which
she had no connection. " I have seen the wicKed great in
power, like a green bay-tree ; and I passed again, and lo : he
was not." Was that the story, written in ruin, written in
tears t And Robert ! Where was he — he who^ had stretched
out his hands to her in the depths of despair, from hell, from
across the Atlantic, from — where 1

Helen rose up piteously, and that suspense which had been
momentarily dispossessed by the urgency of more immediate
claims upon her attention, came back again, and tore her heart
in twain. Oh, they might think her foolish who did not know !
but who else except Robert could have seized her very heart
with those two up-stretched hands of Dives, hands that could
have drawn her down, had she been there, out of the hishest
heaven? She could trust no longer, she thought, to the luke-
warm interest of friends — to men who did not understand.
She must bestir herself to find out. She must find out if she
should die.

Thus, with dry, bright eyes, and a fire new-lit in her heart
which burned and scorched her, she went down-stairs into the
common world. " I will bring your breakfast directly, 'm,"
said Susan, meeting her in the passage, and Helen went in to
the old, ghostly drawing-room, the place which had grown so
familiar to her, almost dear.

Was it the old drawing-room she had lived in yesterday 1
or what strange vision was it that came across her of another
room, far different, a summer evening as this was a summer

AT HIS GATEa.

401

morning, a child who cried " Mamma, here is a letter ! '*
Nothing — nothing ! only a mere association, one of the tricks
fancy plays us. This feverish start, this sudden swimming of
the head, and wild question whether she was back in St. Mary's
Koad, or where she was, arose from the sight of ^a letter which
lay awaiting her, on the centre of a little round table. It lay
as that letter had lain some years ago, in which he took his
leave of her — as a hundred letters must have lain since. A
common letter, thrown down carelessly, without any meaning.
Oh, fool, fool that she was !

iy, m,'

i; jixi DiUi (L'.ii '..uii ,uTO<» t-uiii. f.i,

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402

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XL.

RS. BURTON was alone in her deserted house. The
house was not deserted in the common sense of the
word. Up-stairs at this very momen,t it was buzzing
with life and movement ; and at least the young men in the
smoking room — men who had come from town, from their du-
ties and their pleasures, expressly for the ball — were comment-
ing to each other carelessly upon the absence of their host.
" Young Burton has been off for six months on a wandering fit,
and old Burton is up to the eyes in business, as usual," Cyril
Rivers explained, who was not unfriendly to his entertainers ;
while the Marchioness, with Lady Florizel in the room of state
up-stairs, was commenting upon Clara's behaviour, and declaring
her intention to leave next morning. "Fortunately, Mere-
wether has not committed himself," the Marchioness was say-
ing. In another room of the house, Mrs Burton's two aunts,
supported by their two maids, were shaking their heads to-
gether in mingled sorrow and anger. " Depend upon it,
something will come of all this," Mrs. Everest said, as she put
on her night-cap ; and Aunt Louisa cried, and exclaimed
that when Clara entered on such an extravagant course, she
always knew that some chastisement must come. " I would
shut that child up, and feed her on bread and water," cried the
stronger-minded sister ; and so said the maids, who thought
Miss Clara wats bewitched — and with such a man !

While all this was going on, little Mrs. Burton was alone in
the ball-room, which was still blazing with lights. She was
seated wearily in a big chair at one end. But for her diamonds,
which sought the light, and made a blaze of radiance round
about her, like the aureole of a saint, she would have been
invisible in the great, spacious, empty room. A deserted ball-
room has been so often described, that I will not repeat the un-
necessary picture. This ball-room, however, had not a dismal
aspect ; everything was too well managed for that. The flow-
ers arranged in great brilliant banks of colour, were not fading,

AT HIS GATES.

403

but looked as brilliant as ever ; the lights shone as brightly.
Except for some flowers dropped about from the bouquets of the
dancers, some shreds of lace and tulle torn from their dresses, it
might have been before instead of after the ball. Mrs. Burton
was seated at the further end. She sat quite motionless, her
hands crossed in her lap, her diamonds reflecting the light*
What a night this had been for her 1 The other parties con-
cerned had each had their share — her husband his ruin, her
child her elopement ; but this small woman with her hands
clasped, with this crowded house to regulate and manage, with
her part still to play in the world around her, knew all and had
all to bear. She sat thus among the ruins, nothing hid from
her, nothing postponed. Through her slight little frame there
was a dull throbbing of pain ; but her head was clear, and did
not lose a jot of all that fate had done, of all it had in store.
She did not complain. She had foreseen much ; she had gone
forward with her eyes open ; she had even said that were her
husband to be bankrupt in two days, she would give a ball on
the intermediate night. If it was a brag, she had excelled that
brag ; she had given her greatest ball, and reached her apoth-
eosis, on the very night when he was flying from justice. And
no good angel had interfered to soften to her the news of these
successive blows. She had herself opened the ball with old
Lord Bobadil— the man of highest rank present ; and it was
when she had resumed her seat, after that solemn ceremonial,
that Golden, whom she hated, approached her, and whispered
in her ear the news of her husband's ruin. She had been pre-
pared for the news, but not then, nor at such a moment ; never-
theless, she stood up and received the blow without a cry, with-
out a moment's failure of her desperate courage. And every-
thing had gone on. She was always pale, so that there was
nothing to betray her so far as that went, and her cares as hos-
tess never relaxed. She went from side to side, dispensing her
attentions, looking after everybody's comfort as if she had been
a queen, and all the time asking herself had he been taken ?
was he a prisoner 1 how much shame should she have to bear 1
Then, when the slow hours had gone on, and the insupportable
din aJdout her seemed as if it must soon come to an end, there
arrived that other message of woe, poor kind Mrs. Dalton; with
tears in her eyes, and a voice which faltered. "The rector ha9

ill

i:.i--'i!i'i*i^mmmm._ii-

AT HIS GATES.

fone after them. Oh, will you let me stay with you 1 Can
be of any use to you V* Mrs. Dalton had sobbed, attract-
ing, as the other woman — the real sufferer— knew, the atten-
tion of those groups about, who had no right to know anything
of her private sorrows. " It is not necessary. My father is
here, and my aunts. I can have every thing done that is
wanted," Mrs. Burton replied : and she had turned round to
show some one who came to ask her where the basket was
with all the ribbons, and flowers, and pretty toys for the cotil-
lion. Through all this she had stood her ground. She had
shaken hands with the last of her guests and had seen the
visitors to their rooms before she gave in ; and even now she
was not giving in. Had any one entered the empty room,
Mrs. Burton would have proved equal to the occasion ; she
would have risen to meet them — have talked on any sulj)ject
with perfect self command. But fortunately, no one came, i

Poor old Mr. Baldwin had arrived at Dura only that night.
He had heard a great many disquieting rumours, and he was
very unhappy about his son-in-law's position, and about the
way in which his daughter took it. Even the fact that she had
her settlement scarcely consoled him ; for he said to himself
that the creditors would " reflect " upon all this extravagance,
and that even about the settlement itself a great deal would be
said. He had hovered about her all the evening, looking wist-
fully at her, inviting her confidence ; but Mrs. Burton had not
said a word to him, even of her daughter's disappearance. She
had felt no impulse to do anything about Clara. Whether it
was that all her energy was required to bear up against those
successive blows, or if her pride shrank from informing even
her own friends, or finally, if she felt it useless, and knew that
now no power on earth could compel the self-willed girl to re-
turn, it is certain that Mrs. Burton had " taken no steps."
Even now she did not think of taking any steps. She allowed
her father and her aunts to go to bed without a word. She
sat and pondered, and did nothing. Alone in that great blaz-
ing deserted room — alone in the house — alone in tht^ world:
this was what she felt. Out of doors the birds were singing
and the sun shining ; but the closed windows admitted only
the palest gleam of the daylight. When the servants came to
tell her that Mr. Dalton was at the door, asking to see her, she

AT HIS GATES.

405

sent him a civil message. " Many thanks ; but her father was
with her, and could do all she wanted." Then her maid came
to ask if Mrs. Burton did not want anything, and was sent
away with a wave of her hand. Then the butler came timidly
to ask should they shub up ? was master to be expected 1 At
that summons Mrs. Burton rose.

** I am tired," she said, putting on her company calm ; for
Simmons the butler was as important in his way as old Lord
Bobadil. " I was glad to rest a little after all the worry. Yes,
certainly, shut up, and let everybody go to bed. I do not ex-
pect your master to-night."

" If I might be so bold, madam," said Simmons, " Tom the
groom have just been in to say as orders was took to the sta-
bles to send the dog-cart for master to the north gate, and aa
he took him up there and drove him to Turley station, and as
he gave him this note, and said as it was all right."

" All right ! " She repeated the words, looking at him with
a ghastly bewilderment which frightened the man. And then
she recovered herself, and resumed her former composure.
" That will do, Simmons. Your master had a — journey — to
make. I was not aware he would start so — soon. Have every-
thing shut up as quickly as possible, and let all the servants
go to bed."

She went up-stairs, emerging all at once into the full morn-
ing sunshine in the hall, which dazzled and appalled her. The
light dazzled her eyes, but not her jewels, which woke at its
touch, and blazed about her with living, many-coloured radi-
ance. A little rainbow seemed to form round her as she went
up-stairs; How her temples throbbed ! What a dull aching
was in every limb, in every pulse ! She went into Clara's room
first. ShiB was not a very tender mother, and never had been ;
yet almost every night for seventeen years she had gone into
that room before retiring to her own. Clara's maid was seated,
fast asleep, before a table on which a candle was burning piti-
fully in the full daylight. The room looked trim and still as
a room does which has not been occupied in that early bright-
ness. The maid woke with a shiver as Mrs. Burton entered.
" Oh, Miss Clara, I beg your pardon ! " she said.
"It is no matter. My daughter will not want you to-night.
Go to bed, Jane," said Mrs. Burton. ** And you can tell Barnes

^'T-M^ . W'-

406

AT HIS GAT£S.

to eo to bed. Neither of you will be wanted. Go at once."
'When she was left alone, ^e cast a glance round to see if
there was any letter. There was a little three-cornered note
fastened on the pincushion. She took that into her hand along
with her husband's note, which she held there, but did not at-
tempt to read either. With a quick eye she noted that Clara's
jewel-case and all the presents which had been showered upon
her that morning — her eighteenth birthday — had gone. A
faint, mechanical smile came upon her face, and then she locked
the door, and went to her own room.

There she sat down again to think, with the diamonds still
upon her and all her ornaments, and the two letters in her
hand. Why should she read them 1 She knew exactly what
they would be. The one she did open after a long pause was
Clary's. The other — had she any interest in it 1 it gave her a
sensation of disgust rather : she tossed it on the table. Clary's
note was very short. It ran thus : —

" Dear Mamma, — Feeling sure you never would consent, and
as we both know we could not live without each other, I have
made up my mind to leave you. I shall be Mrs. Golden when
you get this, for he has prepared everything. We start imme-
diately for the Lakes, and I will write you from there. Of
course it would have been nicer to have been Lady Somebody;
but then I never saw any one who was half so nice as he is ;
and he hopes, and so do I, that you will soon make up your
mind to it, and forgive us.

" Your affectionate

"Clary.

** He bids me say it is to be at St. James's, Piccadilly, and
that if you inquire, you will find everything quite right."

Mrs. Burton tossed this from her too on to the same table
where the father's letter lay unopened. The scorn with which
they filled her stopped for a moment the movement of that
wonderful machine for thinking which nothing had yet arrested.
It was " human nature " pur et simple. Clara had taken her
jewels, had made sure it was " all right " about the wedding :
and the father had sent the same message — "all-right." All
right ! A smile flitted across the pale, almost sterii, little face

AT HIS GATES.

407

of the woman who was left to bear all this, and to bear it
alone. Most other woman would have made some f tionate
attempt to do something — to pursue the one or the otner — to
go to their succour. Mrs. Burton had no such impulse. She
was like a soldier who has fought to the last gasp ; she stood
still upon her span of soil, her sword broken, her banner taken
from her ; nothing to fight for any longer, yet still, with the
instinct of battle, holding out, and standing firm. So long as
there was any excuse for keeping up the conflict, bhe would
have borne every blow like a stoic ; what she could not bear
was the thought of giving in ; and the hour for giving in had
come.

Must it be told 1 Must she acknowledge before the world
that all had been in vain ] that her husband was a fugitive, her
daughter the victim of a scoundrel, her family for ever crushed
down and trampled in the dust ? To everything else she could
have wound up her high courage. This was the only thing
that was really hard for her, and this was what she had to do.
How much, she wondered, would she have to suffer 1 Pro-
bably Mr. Burton would be taken, tried, share the fate which
various men whose names she knew had already borne. Should
she have to go to him ! to visit him in his prison ? to read her
own name in the papers — "Mrs. Burton spent an hour with
the prisoner," " His wife was present ! " She clasped her
small, thin hands together. For a long time she had wondered
whether, when it came, she would feel it. She could have answered
her own question now. Buin, shame, public comment, sudden
descent from her high estate, humiliation, sympathy, even pity
— all these were before her ; and it would have been hard for
her to say which was the worst.

The young men roused her with their voices as they came
up stairs. It was not worth while going to bed, she heard one
say ; a bath, and then a long walk somewhere before breakfast
was the only thing possible. This called her attention to the
clock striking on the mantelpiece. Six o'clock ! No longer
night, but day ! She rose, and took off her jewels and her
evening dress. It troubled and tired, and irritated her to do
all this for herself ; but she succeeded at last. A nightly vigil,
and even all the emotion through which she had passed did not
make the same difference to her colourless countenance which

408

T HIS GATES.

it would have done to a more blooming woman. When she

knocked ;it her father's door, and went in to his bedside to
speak to him, he thought her looking very much as usual. He
tnought he must have overslept himself, which was likely
enough, considering how late he had been last night ; and that
she had come to call him and have a chat with him before all
her fine people came down to breakfast. It was kind of Clara.
It showed, what he had sometimes doubted, that she was still
capable of recollecting that she was his child.

" I have come to tell you of some things that have happened,"
she said, sitting down in the big chair by the bed, " and to ask
your advice and help. Some strange things have happened to-
night. In the first place, papa, you were a true prophet. Mr.
Burton has been obliged to go away."

" To go away ?"

" Yes, to escape, to fly — whatever you call it. He is —
ruined. I suppose he must be worse than ruined," she aoded
quietly ; " for — I hear — the police "

** Oh, Clara ! Oh, my poor, poor child !"

" Don't be sorry for me, papa. Let us look at it calmly. I
am not one to cry, you know, and get over it in that way. So
far as I have heard yet, he has got off : he reached Turley
station this morning, I suppose in time for the train. Most
likely he has money, as he has not asked for any, and he may
get safely off. Stop, papa ; that is not all I have to tell you.
There is something more."

" Clara, my own poor girl ! there can be nothing so bad."

worse," she said. *^ Papa,
can help. Clara has — eloped.
She has gone off with Mr. Golden, whom you all forgave, whom
I hated, who was — her father's friend."

The old man gave a great cry. Clary was his grandchild,
whom he adored. He loved her with that fond, caressing,
irresponsible love which is sometimes sweeter than even a
parent's love for his own child. It was for others to find fault
with, to correct her ; the grandfather had nothing to do but
admire, and pet, and praise. " Clary !" it was but the other
day that he told her stories as she sat on his knee !

" Yes, Clary. Here is her note, and here is — Mr. Burton's.
They are both gone. All this has happened since last night,"

** CJara, what o'clock is it now ?"

" Some people would think it
don't say anymore than you

AT HIS

"Half-past six," she said, mechanically taking out ner wai
** and, fortunately, nobody will be stirring for some time at
least. Papa, what are you going to do V

" I am going to get up," he said. " Clara, there is still time.
If I can get up to town by the first train, I may be in time to
stop it yet."

" To stop— what ?"

** The marriage, child, the marriage ! Clary's destruction I
Go away, my dear, and let me get up."

" It would be of no use," she said. " Papa, when Clary has
made up her mind, nothing that we can say would stop her.
You might do it by law, perhaps ; but she w^ill never come
home again — never hear reason. I know 'her better. There
were a great many things I wanted to ask about "

" Leave me just now, for heaven's sake, Clara ! 1 must try
at least, to save the child."

She rose without another word, and went away. A smile
once more stole upon her face, and stayed there, rigid and fixed.
He might have been of a little help to herself ; but he thousht
of Clary first — Clary, who was obstinate, and whom nothms
could move — who was coaxing and winning to those who loved
her, and would pursuade the old man to anything. Well, Mrs.
Burton said to herself, she had hoped for his help for a moment;
but now it was clear that she must do everything for herselfl

She went downstairs, and took down a cloak which hung in
the hall, and wrapping it about her, stepped out into the fresh
air. That, at least, might help her, though nothing else would.
She walked down to the avenue, to the skirt of the woods.
Like a cordial the soft air breathed about her, and gave her a
certain strength. She was not a woman who cared about the
meaner delights of wealth ; all these she would have given up
without a pang. But to exchange this large, free, lofty life
which she had been leading for the restrained and limited exis*
tence of her father's house — to be no longer entire mistress of her
own actions, but to be bound by her father's antiquated notions,
by what Aunt Everest and Aunt Louisa thought proper — that
would be hard to bend her mind to. To give up Dura for
Clapham ! Even that she could do stoically, and no one would
ever be the wiser. But to bear all the shame, all the com-
ments, a husband in prison, a story of romance of real life, ruin

itm

'».r!V"!g'J!W?fe*S»

'<'(*?J"'"S'^!"N!SS1

410

▲T HIS GATES.

of the father, elopement of the daiiffhter, in the newspapers !
Mrs. Burton gave no outward si^n of the struggle thai went on
within her, but she clasped her little thin white hands together,
and she recognised at once, wholly and clearly, without any
8elf-decei>tion, what she would have to bear.

She waited there till her father came up to his on her wav
to the station. He stopped and told her he would come back
as soon as he could.

** Most likely I will take Olary to Clapham first," he said,
'' Better than here, don't you think 1 She might be frightened
to face you after her folly. My dear, take a little courage if
you can. The innocent child has given us all clue that is
necessary — St. James's, Piccadilly. No marriage could take
place before eight o'clock, and I shall reach there soon after —
in time to prevent that, at least. I will take her to Clapham,
and then, my dear, I will come straight back to you." '

" Very well, papa," she said.

In her heart she wondered at his simplicity, at the folly of
his hopes ; but what was the use of saying anything 1 If it

I)lea8ed him to do this, if this was what he thought best, why,
et him do it. Let every one act as it seemed good in his own
eyes.

" And by-the-bye, Clara, one thing more," he said — " Ned's
address. Where is he nowl I must telegraph at once for
him."

- Then some faint semblance of the tigeress guarding her young
appeared In Mrs. Burton.

" Ned ! Why should Ned be brought home 1 Why should
he be involved in trouble he has nothing to do with 1 He is
out of it ; he, at least, is safe. No, papa ; I will not have him
brought back."

** Clara, you are mad, you are incomprehensible !" cried her
father. " Give me the boy's address."

" I will not," she answered' looking at him.

The woman had come to light in her at last — the woman
and something of the mother. As a daughter she had
neglected none of the observances of respect. She had been
dutiful, though she had long been an independent agent, and
had forgotten the very idea of obedienee. But never had she
defied her father before. She did it now calmly, as she. did

«<

AT HIS 0ATE8.

411

everything. She had upheld her family and its importance as
long as mortal strength could do it ; and nov^ when that had
failed, she could at least defend her boy.

** Clara, yoi astonish me. I could not have believed it of
you," said her father severely.

But he had no time to remonstrate or to command. He had
to hurry away for his train. And she stood and looked after
him, her breath for the first time quickened with excitement,
her resolution brindng a certain colour to her cheek. Ned was
safe, and out of all this trouble. It was the only gleam of
comfort in her clouded sky. He who should bring her boy
back to undergo all this shame and suffering was her enemy,
though it were done on the specious pretence of serving her.
To bring her son back to support and help her would be to do
her the last and cruellest wrong. She could do without the
help and support. She was ready to bear anything, since it
must be borne. What relief could it afford her to know that
another suffered too, and that other her son 1 She went back
to the house with quickened steps under the sway of the
thought, that Ned, at least, was sapfe and out of it. She was
not the kind of w oman who would complain of bearing any-
thing alone.

Breakfast was a very late and straggling meal that day at
Dura ; but Mrs. Burton was the first at the table — before
even the young man who had proposed a bath and a walk instead
of sleep. The breakfast was as sumj tuous, as well served, as
usual, and there were the same number of servants about, the
do^s, as usual, on the lawn, the man with the post-bags, as usual,
visible coming up the avenue. The ordinary eye would have
seen no indication of any change. But Mrs. Burton made a
calm little speech to every new group, which had the most curi-
ously disconcerting effect upon her guests. She said to them that
family circumstances compelled her to make preperations at
.once for leaving Dura ; that some things had happened which
she need not tell them of — family events — which had changed
all her arrangements. She hoped, under these circumstances,
they would pardon her, if she said plainly

" Oh, yes, certainly. Not another word," the visitors cried,
dismayed. They all gazed at each other, and whispered over
their tea-cups when her back was turned. They heard her say

i,:! I,

412

AT HIS GATES.

the same thing to one party after another — even to the Mar-
chioness herself, who had come down fully primed, meaning to
overwhelm Mrs. Burtoi with a theatrical leavetaking.

" Why, why, why !" she cried in her wrath, " you mean that
you want to— get rid of us, Mrs. Burton !" and her hair stood
on end upon her nohle head.

** I am afraid, without making any mystery of it, that is
what I do mean. Lady Upshire," said the woman who was only
the wife of a rich City man — a parvenvs, one of the nouveaux
riches— ^xing her blue eyes calmly upon her splendid guest.
' " What pluck she has !" the young men said to themselves.
They almost cheered her for her dauntless front. And they
were all gone by two o'clock — marchioness and maid, guards-
man and public servant — every visitor, gentle and simple.
They disappeared as if by magic. What questions they ae^ked
each other, what speculations they entertained among them-
selves, Mrs. Burton neither knew nor cared. The first thing
was to be free of them ; and when the afternoon came, she was
alone with the startled servants and her two aunts, to whom as
yet she had given no explanations, and whose private opinion
stated a hundred times that morning, was, that at last, beyond
all controversy, Clara must be mad.

AT HtS GAteS.

41d

CHAPTER XLI.

K. BALDWIN came back to Dura in the afternoon,
worn out and disappointed — foiled by the simple fact,
which had never occurred to the old man as possible,
that Clary— his innocent Clary — had wittingly or unwittingly
given a false indication, and that St. James's, Piccadilly, knew
nothing of any such marriage. Mr Baldwin drove to all the
hotels, to all the churches, he could think of, from St. James's,
Camberwell, to St. James's, Kentish Town, but in vain. Just
when it was too late to follow them further, he discovered an
anonymous little chapel which he must have passed a dozen
times in his journeys, where the ceremony had actually taken
place. Charles Golden to Clara Burton. Then he had gone
to the Northern Railway Station, and discovered they had left
by the eleven o'clock train. All he had done had been to
verify their movements. The poor old man aged ten years
during this running to and fro. He went back to his daughter
worn out and miserable. Little Clary, the pride of the family,
with all her beauty, her youth, and the possibilities that lay
before her ! " Now I know that we may go too far in carry-
ing out the precepts of Christianity," he groaned, when his
sympathetic sisters came to console him. "We thought he
had repented, and we took him back to our hearts." In this,
however, poor Mr. Baldwin deceived himself. Golden had
been received back into their hearts, not because he had repent-
ed, but because the scandal against him had died into oblivion,
and because in their souls even the honest men admired the
consummate cleverness of the rogue. And in this point, at
least, Mr. Golden had not been mercenary ; he had actually
fallen in love with Clara Burton, knowing the desperate state of
her father's affairs — affairs which were so desperate, when he was
called on to help in regulating them, that he had been " oblig-
ed to decline " the task. Golden had a little Sybarite " place "
of his own on the shores of the Mediterranean. So many
scraps of money had adhered to his fingers in his various com-

ii'l

Hi"

if'-.

AT HtS OATfiS.

mercial adventures, though these adventures were always un-
fortunate, that he could afiford himself that crowning luxury of
a beautiful wife ; and then Mr. Baldwin was a rich man and a
doating grandfather, who after a while would be sure to for-
give.

As for Mrs. Burton, she had expected her father's failure,
and was not surprised or disappointed. She had given her
up, not with any vindictive or revengeful intention, but simply
as a matter of fact. " Oh, don't curse her, Clara ! " Aunt
Louisa sobbed in the midst of her tears. And then indeed
Mrs. Burton was surprised. " Curse her ! I have no inten-
tion of cursing her," she said. Clary had taken her own way ;
she had pleased herself. What she had done was quite easily
to be accounted for ; it was human nature. Mrs. Burton was
not subject to passions herself, but she recognised them as a
motive-power ; and though perhaps in her inmost heart there
was a sense of shame that her child should be violently moved
by those lowest, almost brutal, forces (for so she deemed them),
yet her intelligence understood and allowed the possibility.
Clara had acted according to her nature ; that was all that was
to be said. She had laid an additional burden upon her family
— or rather upon her mother, the only one of the family left
to bear it ; but then it was not natural to Clary to take ac-
count of what other people might have to bear. Thus Mrs.
Burton accepted it, making no complaint If it . gave her any
additional individual pan^ for itself, and not merely as part of
the whole, she at least said little about it, and made no indi-
vidual complaint.

But there came a moment when actual feeling, emotion not
to be disguised, broke foith in this self-possessed woman. She
had decided to remain at Dura till further news, and until her
l^usband's affairs could be fully examined into ; and though her
aunts went home, her father remained with her. Two long
clays passed over without news. On the third, Tuesday, Mr.
Baldwin went to town to make what inquiries were possible.
As yet there had been but vague hints in the newspapers —
rumours of changes affecting " a well-known name in the City"
*— an4 the old man had hesitated to show himself, to ask any
questions which might, as he said, " precipitate matters."
While we are in ignorance, quiet is best," he had said ; but

AT HIS GATES.

415

when the third day arrived, though Mrs. Burton still bore the
suspense like a stoic, Mr. Baldwin could not bear it any longer.
When he was gone, she showed no signs of impatience ; she
went about her business as usual, and she had a great deal to
do. She had begun at once to wind up the accounts of the
house, to arrange with her servants, to whom she was a just
and not ungenerous mistress, when they should go and what
would be done to find them places. But when the languid
afternoon came, her energy flagged a little. She did not
allow, even to herself, that she was anxious. She went into
the great drawing-room, and sat down near a window from
which she could see the avenue. Perhaps for the first time,
the impulse came into her mind to prefer a smaller room, to
take refuge somewhere else than in this waste of <damask and
gilding ; but if such was the case, she restrained and condemned
the thought. She was herself so small, almost invisible, in
the great, silent place, full of those mirrors which reflected no-
thing, those chairs where no one sat, no marble statue, with a
finger on its lip was ever so complete an embodiment of silence
as she, seated there all alone, motionless, looking out upon the
road. It might have been hours before any one came. A sum-
mer afternoon, slovr, languid, endless, one vast blank of drowsy
calm and blazing sunshine, the wind too listless to blow, the
leaves too heavy to wave, everything still, even the birds. But
at last, at last some one came — not Mr. Baldwin's slow, heavy
old steps, but rapid young ones, light and impatient. She
gazed at the speck as it gradually approached, and became re^
cognisable. Then her heart gave a great unexpected, painful
throb. Ned ! Her last little gleam of satisfaction, her last
comfort, then, was not to be. He was not out of it, safe, as
she had hoped, but here to bear all the brunt, to share all the
shame. She tried to get up, to go and meet him, but sank
back, faint and incapable, in her chair, trembling, sick to the
heart ; overwhelmed for the first time.

He came in, bringing a gust of fresh air (it seemed) with him
He was dusty, and pale, and eager.

" Mother," he cried, as he came up to her.

She held up her hand with a gesture which was almost pasr

sionate,xepelunghini, li , M?aTf

I *^ Oh, Ned, Ned I why have you come here 1 "

"Don't you want me, mamma )

•■>7»-««8»iiiBeEi%gKWf.i«ffiiB<^

416

AT HIS GATES.

He kissed her as he spoke, and put his arm round her. If
•be had been another kind of woman, he would have sobbed
on her breast, for the lad's heart was very sore.

; "No, I do not want you," she said. " I thought you were
safe. I thought you were out of it all. I was ready to bear
anything — it cannot hurt me — any more. But you, a boy, a
lad, with all your life to come ! Oh, Ned, Ned, why have you
come here 1 " She had never done it before in all her life. She
did not embrace him, but clutched at his arm with her two
hands, and shed passionate, hot tears. "I do not want you !
I do not want you ! " she cried, and clung to him. " I wish
you were at the end of the world."

" Oh, mother ! " cried the boy.

He was fOnd of her, though perhaps she had never done any
thing to deserve it. And she-gloved him. Yes. All at pnce
she found it out, with a mother's passion. Loved him so that
she would have been glad never to see him again ; glad to be
cut in pieces for him; glad to suffer shame, and pain, and
misery, and ruin alone, that he might be out of it. This, which
she had scarcely suspected, she found out at last.

But when this moment was over, and the fact that he had
come was indisputable, and had to be made the best of, Mrs.
Burton recovered her usual calm. She was ashamed of herself
for having " broken down." She said it was fatigue and want
of sleep which had made her weak, and then she told him all
the circumstrnces dispassionately, as was natural to her. He
himself had been summoned by a telegram from Golden. He
had been at Dresden when he received it, and he had travelled
night and day. But why from Golden, he asked, a man whom
he hated 1 " Your mother wants you here. There has been a
gfeat smash, and your presence is indispensable," was what the
telegram had said. But I will not attempt to describe how the
little, pale, dispassionate mother told the tale, nor how the young
son, full of youthful passion, indignation, rage, and grief, heard
of his family's downfall, and the ruin of all its prospects and
hopes.

When Mr. Baldwin came back, he brought news still more
overwfadming. The fact which had made further concealment
impossible, and had driven Burton tp fligbl5;;^'ttC^MaiW^^
up of a trust account for wlU^lf M¥rfd«n ^^oMl€^.7jhe

AT HIS GATES.

417

more
Iment

property had been invested by him, and he had paid the interest
regularly ; but it was found that not a penny of the original ca-
pital remained ; he had appropriated all. When it was known
that he had disappeared, other inquiries had been at once set
on foot, but kept carefully out of the papers, lest his escape
might be facilitated ; and then such disclosures were made as
Mr. Baldwin could only repeat bit by bit, as his strength per-
mitted. The old man cried like a child ; he was utterly broken
down. It had even come out about Rivers's, he said. One of
the missing books, which poor Drummond had been accused of
destroying, had been found in a private safe, along with other
damning accounts, which the unhappy man had not been able
to destroy or conceal, so quickly did his fate overtake him.
The unhappy man I Both Mr. Baldwin and Mrs. Burton re-
membered the time when Robert Drummond had been thus
described — when all the newspapers had preached little ser-
mons about him, with many a repetition of this title — articles
which Burton had read, and shaken his head over, and declared
were as good as sermons, warning the ignorant. This flashed
upon Mrs. Burton's mind, and it came more dimly to her
father. Fortunately, Ned's misery was not complicated by
such recollections ; he had enough without that.

" But the general impression is that he has escaped," said
Mr. Baldwin ; and he repeated to them the vague account
which had been given to him of the two futile detectives, who
had watched the fugitive into a house, and kept in front of it,
putting the inhabitants on their guard, while he was smuggled
out by a side-door. No doubt he had escaped. And it was
known that he had money ; for he had drawn a large sum out
of the bank the day before.

"I am glad you have come back, Ned," the grandfather
added. "It is you who ought to manage this, and not your
mother. Of course she has her settlement, which nobody can
touch. And I think now, my deJir, that you should leave Dura,
and come with me to Clapham. You will have your aunts*
society to make up a little, and it will be more convenient for
Ned."

Mrs. Burton looked at her son almost wistfully.

" Ned, is there any sacrifice I can make that will induce you
to go away ^ "
AA

418

AT HIS GATES.

" None, mother," he said, " nohe. I will do anything else
that you ask me. But here I must have a will of my own. I
cannot go away."

" Go away ! " said Mr. Baldwin. " I don't know how he
has got here ; for your mother would not let me send for you,
Ned ; but of course this is your proper place. It will be very
painful — very painful," said the old man. " But you have your
settlement, Clara ; and we must hope everything will turn out
for the best."

** My mother will give up her settlement, sir, of course,"
said Ned. "After what has happened, she could not — it
would be impossible — What ! you don't see it 1 Must not
those suffer who have done the wrong 1 "

" Ned, you are a fool," said Mr. Baldwin, " a hot-headed
young fool. I see your sense now, Clara. That scoundrel.
Golden, has sent for him only to increase our vexation. Give
up her settlement I Then pray how is she to live ] "

" With me," said Ned, rising up, and standing behind his
mother's chair. He would have taken her hand to sustain him,
if he could ; but she did not give him her hand. He put his
on the back of her chair. That, at least was something to give
him strength.

"With you ! " Mr. Baldwin was moved by this absurdity to
something of his former vigour. " It would be satisfactory, in-
deed, trusting her to you. I will have no Quixotical nonsense
brought in. This is my affair. I am the proper person to
look after my daughter's settlement. It is the only comfort in
a bad business. Don't let me hear any more of such childish
folly."

" It is not folly," said Ned firmly, though his voice trembled.
" I am sure my mother feels like me. \Ve have no right to
keep anything while my father has been spending other peo-
ple's money ; or if we have a right in law "

Mrs. Burton put up her hand to stop him. It was the first
time in her life that she had allowed herself to be discussed,
what she should or would do, without taking any share in it.
The fact was, the question was a new one — the problem quite
strange to her. She had considered it as certain up to this
moment that her settlement belonged to her absolutely, and
that her husband's conduct one way or other could have no

At Htd OAtES.

419

effect upon her undoubted right. The problem was altogether
new. She put up her hand to interrupt the discussion.

" I have not thought of this," she said. " Ned, say no more*
I want time to think. 1 shall tell you to-morrow what I will
do."

Against this decision there was not a word to say. The old
man and the boy gave up their discussion as suddenly as they
had begun it. Let them argue as they would, it was she who
must settle the question ; and just then the great bell rang —
the bell which regulated the clock in the village, and warned
all the countryside when the great people at the great house
were going to dine. The ears which were accustomed to it
scarcely noted the sound ; but Ned, to whom it had become a
novelty, aud as great a mockery as a novelty, started violently,
put up his hands to his ears, and rushed out into the hall,
where Simmons stood in all the splendour of his evening dress.

" Stop that infernal noise ! " cried poor Ned, in a sudden
outburst of rage and humiliation. He felt tempted to knock
down the solemn spy before him, who already, he saw, had
noted his dusty dress, his agitated face.

" Happy to see you home, sir," said Simmons. " Did you
speak, sir 1 Is there anything as I can do for you ? "

" The bell is not to be rung any more," said Ned, walking
gloomily off to his room. It was the first sign to the general
world that the grandeur of Dura had come to an end.
. A mournful dinner followed, carefully cooked, carefully
served, an assiduous silent servant behind each chair, and eaten'
as with ashes, and bitterness, and tears, a few faint remarks
now and then, a feeble attempt, " for the sake of the servants,"
to look as if nothing was the matter. It was Mr. Baldwin
chiefly, a man who never could make up his mind that all was
over, who made these attempts. Mrs. Burton, for her part,
was above all pretences. Her long stand against approaching
ruin was over ; she had laid down her arms, and she no longer
cared who knew it. And as for Ned, he was too miserable,
too heart-broken, to look anything but overwhelmed with sor-
row and shame, afi he was.

In the evening he strolled out, feeling the air of the house
insupportable. His mother had gone to her room with her
new problem which she had to solve, and Mr. Baldwin was

At HtS <3At£S.

tired, and fretful, and anxious to get to bed early, feeling that
there was a certain virtue in that fact of going early to bed
which might redeem the unusually disturbed, excited life he
was leading — a life in which he had been fatally entangled with
ruins, and elopements, and sitting up half the night. Ned,
who had no mind for sleep, and no power of thinking which
could have been of any service to him in the circumstances,
went out disconsolately, saying to himself that a stroll in the
woods might do him good. But when he had reached the top
of the avenue, where the path diverged into the woods, some
"spirit in his feet " led him straight on. Why, ho asked him-
self, should he go to the village 1 why should he go to the Gate-
house ) Yes, that was where he wanted to go — where his
foolish heart had gone before him, courting slight and scorn.
Why should he go 1 If she had sent him away then with Con-
tumely, how much more now ? At that time, if she had but
looked upon him kindly, he had thought he had something to
offer her worthy her acceptance. Now he had nothing, and
less than nothing — an empty purse and a dishonoured name.
Ned slouched his hat over his eyes. He would go and look at
the house, look at her window. If he might see her face again,
that would be more than he hoped for. Norah could be noth-
ing — ^nothing to him now.

So saying, he wandered down the leafy, shadowy way. The
sun had set, the grey of the evening had come on ; the moon
was past the full, and rose late ; it was one of those soft, tran-
quil, mournful summer evenings which fill the heart with wist-
fulness and longings. The water came unbidden into poor
Ned's eyes. Oh, what ruin, what destruction had overwhelmed
him and his since last he walked down that path ! Then every-
thing that life could offer to make up for the want of Norah
(though that was nothing) lay within his grasp. Now*, though
Norah was clearly lost, everything else was lost with her. He
saw no hope before him ; his very heart was crushed ; a beg-
gar, and more than a beggar ; a man who did not know how
to dig or how to work ; the son of a father who was disgraced.
These were miserable thoughts to pour through the mind of a
young man of twenty-one. There have been others who have
had as much to bear ; but they, perhaps, had no Norah to com-
plicate and increase the burden. As he drew near the Gate-

AT HIS OATBS.

421

house, his heart began to beat louder. Probably she would
not care to speak to him at all, he thought ; how quickly she
had dismissed him last time, when he had no stains upon him,
as he had now !

He drew his hat still more over his brows. He walked
quickly past the Gatehouse. The windows were all open, and
Stephen Haldane sat within, in an interior faintly lighted up
by the candles which Miss Jane had just set down upon the
table.

" Don't shut my window yet," he heard the invalid say.
" My poor window I My chief pleasure ! "

It was strange to Ned to hear those words, which seemed to
let him into the very secret of the sick man's life.

" And a capital window it has been too," said Miss Jane
briskly, thinking of the book, and the money it had brought in.

Ned slackened his steps when he had passed. There had
been something at one of the windows on the other side —
something, a shadow, a passing gleam, as of a pale face pillowed
upon two arms. The poor boy turned, and went back this
time more slowly. Yes, surely there was a face at the window.
The arms were withdrawn now ; there was no light inside to
reveal who it was ; only a something — a pale little face looking
out

Back again — just once more, once more — to have a last look.
He would never see her again; most likely. As far away as if
she were a star in heaven would she be henceforward. He
would pass a little more slowly this time ; there was no one
about to see him. The road was quieter than usual ; no one
in sight ; and with his hat so over his eyes, who could recog-
nize him 1 He went very softly, lingering over every step,
She was still there, looking out, and in the dark with no one
near her ! Oh, Norah I If she could but know how his heart
was pulling at him, forcing him towards that door !

He thought he heard some sound in the silence as of an ex-
clamation, and the face disappeared from the window. A mo-
ment after the door opened suddenly, and a little figure rushed
out.

"Ned 1" it said, "Ned! Is it possible 1 Can it be youl
And, oh, what do you mean walking about out@ide like that, a^
if you knew nobody here ? "

422

AT HIS GATES.

" Oh, Norah ! I did not know if I might come,'* said ab-
ject Ned.

" Of course you may come. Why shouldn't you come 1 Oh,
Ned, I was so lonely ! I am so glad to see you ! I did not
know what to do with myself. Susan would not bring in the
lamp, and I am so afraid of this room when it is dark !'

** How you once frightened me about it ! " he said, as he
went in with her.

His heart felt so much lighter, he could not tell how. In-
sensibly his spirit rose, and with a sense of infinite refresh-
ment, and even of having escaped from something, he went
back to the recollections of his youth. Such an innocent,
simple recollection, belonging to the time when all was plea-
sure, when there was no pain.

" Did I ? But never mind. Oh, Ned ! poor Ned ! have they
brought you here because bf all this trouble ? I have so rriuch
to say to you. My heart is breaking for you. Oh, you poor,
poor, dear boy ! "

This was not how he had expected to be spoken to. He
could scarcely see her face, it was so dark, what with the cur-
tains at the windows and the shadows of the lime-leaves ; but
she had put her hand into his to comfo.^t him. He did not
know wha*^: to say ; his heart was torn in twain, between mis-
ery and joy. It was so hard to let any gleam of light into
that desperate darkness ; and yet it was so hard to keep his
heart from dancing at the sound of her soft, tender voice.

" Norah," he said, " Oh, Norah ! it will not be so very bad
if you are sorry for me. You would not speak to me last time.
I thought I might, perhaps, never see you again."

" Oh, Ned ! I was only a child. How foolish I was ! I
hoped you would look back ; but you never looked back ; and
we who have been brought up together, who have always been
— fond of each other ! "

" Do you ? do you ? Oh, Norah ! not just because you are
sorry ? Do you care — a little for me 1 Speak the truth."

" Ned, Ned 1 — I care for you more than anybody — except
mamma."

There was a little silence after this. They were like two
children in the simplicity of their youth ; their hearts beat to-
gether, their burdens — and both the young shoulders were

AT HIS QAT£S.

423

but

weighed down by premature burdens — were somehow lightened,
they could not tell how.

After a while, Norah, nestling like a little bird, said softly,
" Do you mind sitting without the lamp 1 " and Ned answered,
" No." They sat down together, holding each other's hands ;
they were not afraid of the dark. They poured out their hearts
to each other. All his sorrows, all his difficulties, Ned poured
into Norah's sympathetic bosom ; and she cried, and he con-
soled her ; and she patted his hand or his sleeve, and said,
" Poor boy 1 Poor, dear Ned ! " It was not much. She had
no advice to give him, not many words of wisdom ; but what
she did say was as healing as the leaves of that tree in Para-
dise. Her touch stanched all his wounds.

" I have something to tell you too," she said, trembling a
little, when all his tale had been told. " Ned, you have heard
of poor papa, my father, who died before we came here 1 Oh,
Ned ! listen. Stoop down, and let me whisper. Ned, he did
not die "

"Nc»ah!"

" Hush. Yes ; it is quite true. Oh, don't be frightened. I
can't help being frighteaed staying here alone. Mamma went
to him yesterday. Oh, Ned ! after seven years ! Was there
ever anything so strange 1 "

" Poor Mrs. Drummond ! " said Ned. " Oh, Norah, thank
God ! My father has not done so much harm as I thought.
Are you all alone, my own darling ) I suppose she was happy
to go."

He said this with a strange accent of blame in his voice.
" For her own selfish happiness she could leave Norah — my
Norah — all alone 1 " This was what the young man, in his
haste, thought.

" I think she was frightened too," said Norah, under her
breath. " She did not understand it; It is as if he had been
really dead, and come alive again. Mamma did not say any-
thing ; but I know she was frightened too."

" Norah, most likely he hates us. If he should try to keep
you from me "

" Oh, Ned, do yv>u mean that this means anything ? Do you
think it is right ? We are all in such trouble, not knowing
what may happen. Do you mean," said Norah, faltering and

?..-,iB

' W
1 ^:.

424

AT HIS GATES. *

trembling, " do you mean that this means — Is it — being en-
gaged?"

"Doesn't it, dear? Oh, Norah, what could it mean else 1
You would never have the heart to cast me oflf now 1 "

" Cast you off I Oh, no, Ned ! Oh, never, Nedl But then
that is different. We are so dreadfully young. We have no
money. We are in such trouble. Ohl do you think it is
right 1 "

" It can't be wrong to be fond of each other, Norah ; and
you said you were — a little."

" Yes ; oh, yes I Oh, Ned t do be satisfied. Isn't it enough
for us to care for each other — to be the very best, dearest
friends 1 "

" It is not enough for me," he said, turning his head aside,
and speaking sternly in the dark.

" Isn't it, Ned 1 " said Norah timidly. " Ned, I wish I coiild
see your face. You are not ancry 1 You poor, dear boy ! Ohl
you don't think I could have the heart to cross you 1 and you
in such trouble. Ned, what must we do 1 "

" You must promise me, Norah, on your true and faithful
word, that you will marry me as soon as we can, whatever any-
body may say."

Norah in her alarm seized at the saving clause which staved
off all immediate terrors.

" When we caUy Ned."

" Yes, my own darling. You promise ] I shall not mind
what happens if I have your promise — your faithful promise,
Norah."

" I promise you faithfully, Ned — faithfully, dear Ned 1 —
when we can — if it should not be for years."

" But it shall be ! " he cried ; and then they kissed each
other, poor children ! and Norah was sitting by herself crying
when Susan brought in the lamp.

first

▲T HIS GATES.

425

CHAPTER XLII.

RS. BURTON took her new problem away with her
into the quiet of her room. It was a question
which had never occurred to her before. Some few
first principles even an enquiring mind like hers must take for
granted, and this had been one of them. She had no love for
money, and no contempt for it — it was a mere commonplace
necessity, not a thing to be discussed ; and though she had a
high natural sense of honour and honesty, in her own person,
it had not occurred to her to consider that in such a matter she
had anything to do but to accept the arrangement which was
according to law and common custom, an arrangement which,
of course, had been made (theoretically) in vi«w of a calamity
such as had just happened. It was the intention of her settle-
ment, and of all settlements, she said to herself, to secure a wo-
man against the chances of her husband's ruin. She, in most
cases, was entirely irresponsible for that ruin. She had no-
thing to do with it, and was unable to prevent it. She had
married with the belief that she herself and her children would
be provided for, and the first duty of her friends was to make
sure that it should be so. Up to this point there was no flaw
in the argument. Mrs. Burton knew that she had brought her
husband a good fortune ; and her future had been secured as
an equivalent. It was like buying a commission — it was like
making an investment. She had put in so much, she had a
right to secure to herself absolutely the power of taking it out
again, or recovering what had been hers. Mr. Burton had not
incurred his liabilities with her knowledge or consent ; he had
never consulted her on the matter. He had never said or even
hinted to her that her expenditure was too great, that he could
not afford it. True, it was possible that fastidious persons
might blame her for proceeding so long on her splendid course,
after hints and rumours had reached her about her husband's
position ; but these were nothing more than rumours. She
{lad no sort o^cial information^ nothing really to justify her iu

.r.H

-IF

426

AT HIS GATES.

making a sudden change in her household, which probably
would have affected Mr. Burton's credit more than her extrava-
gance. She was in no way responsible. She had even
protested against the re-introduction of Golden into his affairs.
She could not blame herself for anything she had done ; she
had always been ready to hear, always willing to give him her
advice, to second him in any scheme he propounded to her.
She put herself at the bar, and produced all the evidence
she knew of, on both sides of the question, arid acquitted her-
self. The money she could have saved by economy was not
worth considering in the magnitude of Mr. Burton's affairs.
She had done nothing which she could feel had made her his
accomplice in his wrong-doing.

And she had no right to balk her father in his care for her —
to establish a bad precedent in regard to the security of
marriage settlements — to put it in the power of any set of
creditors to upbraid some other woman whose view of her
duty might be different. She had no right to do it. She had
to think not of herself only but of all the married women who
slept serenely in the assurance that, whatever happened, their
children's bread was secure. She reflected that such a step
would put an end to all security — that no woman would venture
to marry, that no father would venture to give his child to
a man in business, if this safeguard were broken down. It
would be impossible. It would be a blow aimed at the consti-
tution of the country — at the best bulwark of families ; it
would be an injustice. Of all a commercial man's creditors
surely his wife was the one claimant who had most right
to come first. Others might be partially involved ; she had
put everything in his hands. "Without this safeguard she
would not have married him ; she would not have been per-
mitted to marry him. Going over the question carefully, Mrs.
Burton felt, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had right on
her side.

She had right on her side— but she had not Ned. This was
a very different matter — an argument such as she had scarcely
ever taken into consideration before. Mrs. Burton did not
disdain the personal argument. She knew that, in the confused
state of human affairs, in the intricate range of human thoughts,
it wa^ often impossible to go upon pure reason^ and that per<

AT HIS GATES.

427

sonal pleas had to be admitted. But she had never consciously
done this before. She was almost scornful of her own weak-
ness now. But she could not help herself. She had to suffer
the eAtrance of this great personal argument, if with a mental
pang yet without resistance. She loved her son. All that
reason could do for her, all the approbation of her own judg-
ment, the sense of right, the feeling that her position was
logically inassailable, would not be enough to console her for
the illogical, unreasoning <lisapproval of her boy. For the first
time in her life, with a great surprise this certainty seized upon
her. Up to this time she had gone her own way, she had
satisfied herself that she was right according to her own stan-
dard, and she had not cured what any one said or thought.
But now all at once, with wonder, almost with shame, she
found that she had descended from this high eminence. A
whole host of foolish, childish, unreasonable principles of action,
inconsequences, and stupidities were suddenly imported into her
mental world by this apparition of Ned. Not the most certain
sense of right that reasoning creature ever had, would neutra-
lize, she felt, that pained and wondering look in her son's eyes.
If he disapproved it would be a cold comfort to her that reason
was on her side. If this indignant, impatient, foolish young
soul protested against her that what she did would not bear
comparing with some fantastic visionary standard which he
called honour, what would it avail her that by her own just
standard of weight and measure she was not found wanting 1
Thus all Mrs. Burton's principles and habits, her ways of
thinking, the long-exercised solitary irresponsible power of her
intelligence, which had guided her through life for forty y^ars,
were all at once brought to a sudden standstill by the touch, by
the breath of that thing called Love, which, she knew not how
had suddenly come in upon her like a giant. This new influence
paralyzed the fine, delicate, exquisite machinery by which
hitherto all her problems had been worked out. She tried to
struggle against it, but the struggle was ineffectual. It was
the first time she had felt herself, acknowledged herself, to be
acting like a fool ! What then ? She could not help it. Even
in the clear, cold daylight of her mind the entrance of this new
force, all shadowy, mysterious, wonderful, could not be con-
tested, She threw down her arms once more, She had been

ifei

428

AT HIS GATES.

beaten terribly, miserably, in the battle of her life — she was
beaten sweetly, wonderfully now, in a way which melted her
hardness and made the disused heart beat and tremble strangely
within her, in the other world where reason hitherto had
reigned supreme.

But nothing more was said on the subject for some time.
Next morning brought letters, which roused the little party
once more into excitement. There was one from Mr. Burton,
informing his wife that he had got safely to France by a way
little u^ed, and was now in the small seaport of St. Servan,
awaiting letters from his family, and their advice as to what
was best. He had not meant to go there, but a chance en-
counter with Golden at the station had driven him to take the
down-train instead of the up-train. He would remain there if
he could, he added, until he heard from home ; but if ^ny
alarm came would hasten across the country to Brest, from
whence he could get off to America. Mr. Burton did not say
a word of apology or explanation, but he begged to have news,
" of all," to be told " how people were taking it," and to have
the newspapers sent him. He added in a P. S. the following
question : " By the way, what could Golden be doing at Turley
Station, seven miles from Dura, at four o'clock in the morning )
And who could the lady be who was with him 1 If you hear
anything on this subject, let me know."

Clara's letter was from Windermere. It was full of effusive-
ness and enthusiasm, hoping that dearest mamma would forgive
them. Papa, Charles had told her, was not likely to be in a
position to forgive any one, but would want it himself, which
was very dreadful ; but was it not beautiful of Charles, and
showed how generous and how true he was, that papa's ruin
made no difference to his feelings 1 This reflection, Clara said,
made her so happy, that she felt as if she could even forgive papa
— for, if he had not been so rash and so wicked, she never would
ir£ve known how much her dear Charles loved her. They
were coming back to London in a fortnight from thib heavenly
lake, and would start then on a roundabout journey to Charles's
delightful " place " on the Mediterranean. And, oh i Clara
hoped with effusion dearest mamma would see them, and for-
give them, and believe that she had never been so happy in her
Ufe ^ wben she signed herself de^ iQ^nims^'s ever »ffection{^te

rot
sht
I

asked
thed
this t

AT HIS GATES).

429

Clara Golden. These were the letters that came to the little
party at Dura on the morning after Ned's arrival. They were
received with very diflferent feelings by the three. Mr. Bald-
win, on the whole, was pleased, He was pleased with the
" love to grandpapa," with which Clary wound up her letter ;
and he was glad the child was happy at least. *• What is done
cannot be undone," he said ; ** and that is quite true about
there being nothing mercenary in it, you know." Mrs. Burton
gave a faint smile as she laid the letters down one after
another. They were just such letters as she expected. Had
she been alone, perhaps she would have tossed them from her
with scorn, as she had done with the previous notes ; but that
had been in a moment of strong excitement, when she was not
full mistress of herself ; and what was the good, Mrs. Burton
thought, of quarrelling with your own whom you cannot alter,
or of expecting sense and good taste where such qualities did
rot xist 1 From these two, her husband and her daughter,
sbt i lot expect any more.

1 u. t>oor iMed was utterly cast down by these epistles. He
asked himself, as Norah had done when Mr. Rivers left her at
the door of the Academy's Exhibition, was this natural ? was
this the way of the world ? and, like Norah, felt his own dis-
tress doubled by the horrible thought that to think of your own
comfort first and above all, and to be utterly unmoved by the
reflection that you have caused untold misery to others, is the
natural impulse of humanity. He was so sad, and looked 'io
humbled, that his mother's heart was penetrated in her new
enlightenment by a strange perception of how he was feeling.
She was not so feeling herself. The sight of selfishness, even
on so grand a scale, did not surprise nor shock her ; but she
felt what he was feeling, which was as strange to her as a new
revelation! The family at Dura during these days were like a
beleaguered city — thay lived encircled in a close round, if not
of enemies, yet of observant, watchful spectators, who might
become enemies at any moment, who might note even the post-
mark on their letters, and use that against them. Whenever
a step was heard approaching the door, a little thrill went
through them. It might be some one coming to announce deeper
misfortune still. It might be some one who dared to bo
insolent, some one who had a right to curse and denounce.

4>86

At BtS Qitfili

The tension of their nerves was terrible, the strain of watchful-
ness — and the pain of standing secretly and always on their
defence.

" Let us go, let us go, Clara, I cannot stay here any longer ;
now that we know where to write to them, let us go," cried
Mr. Baldwin, after the letters had been read and discussed ;
and then the old man went out to take a melancholy walk,
and ponder what it would be best to do. Should they go back
to Olapham '? or should he take his poor child away some-
where for change of air ? " If ever any one wanted change of
air, surely Clara must.

" Ned, come here," said Mrs, Burton, when they were left
alone. He went and sat down by her, listless, with his hands
in his pockets. Notwithstanding the joy of last night, the
letters, the shame and ruin and misery, had overwhelmed
Ned. \.

" I have been thinking over what you said yesterday about
my settlement," said his mother. * " Ned, in one way your
grandfather was right. It is the equivalent to my fortune. It
was the foundation of our family life- -without that I should
not have been permitted to marry ; I should not probably have
chosen to marry. To give up that is to make an end of all the
securities of life — I speak as arguing the question."

"How can we argue the question'?" cried Ned. "What
have the securities of life mattered to the others, who had no
connection with — with my father ? He was nothing to them
but a man of business. They trusted him, and they have no-
thing left."

" Yes, Ned, but if one of them had been a secured creditor,
as it is called, you would not have expected him to give up his
security, in order to place himself on an equal level with the
others. The most visionary standard of honour would never
demand that."

" We are not secured creditors. We are part of him, shar-
ing his responsibility," cried Ned bitterly, " sharing his
shame."

" But we are the first of all his creditors, all th^ same, in
justice ; and our debt is secured. Ned, I do not say this is
what I am going to do ; but I think, according to my judg-
ment, your grandfather is right."

any
her

AT HtS OATtSS.

" Then mother-

-" He had risen up, his face had grown
very pale, his nostrils dilated, his eyes shining. She who had
never been afraid for anything in her life was afraid of her son
— of his indignation, of his wrath. She put out her hand, half
appealing, half commanding, to stop him. She caught at him,
as it were, before he could say another word.

** Ned, hear me out first ! I approve of it as a matter of
justice. I think we have no right to set up a new standard to
make a rule for other women in my position. There will al-
ways be such, I suppose. The settlement itself was simply a
precaution against this possible thing — which has happened.
But I do not say I mean to act according to my opinion. That
is diflferent. I have — thought it over, Ned."

" Mother," he said, melting almost into tears, and taking her
hand into his, *' mother you who are so much wiser than I am
— you are going to let yourself be guided by me 1 "

" Yes." she said. " I don't quite make myself out, Ned. I
have always taken my own way. Mine is the right way, the
just way ; but perhaps yours is the best"

" Mother, mother dear 1 I am awfully miserable, but I feel
as if I could tell you how happy I am, now."

And, without another word of preface, without a pause to
hear her out, without even observing the jjewildered look as of
one stopped in mid-career with which she regarded him, Ned
dashed into the story of his own love, of his despair and his
joy. She listened to him with her blue eyes dilating, looking
out of her pale face like stars out of a winter sky — suddenly
stiffened back into a little silent stone-woman. She was be-
wildered at first and thrown off her balance. And then gradu-
ally, slowly, the new impatience and faith that had been borne
of love died in her, and the old, cold, patient toleration, the
faint smile, came back. It was natural. His own affairs, of
course, were the closest to him. He thought of his private
story first, not of hers. She had never subjected herself to
such a shock before, aad did not know how hard it was to
bear. Well ! but what of that ? That was her own folly not
any one else's. She had put aside her armour, thrown open
her breast for the first time ; and if an arrow, barbed and
sharp, was the first thing that came to it, that was but natural
— ^it was her own fault. She sat, therefore, and listened with

«*..

ill

432

AT HIS O TES.

the faint smile even now stealing a> 3ut her lips — a smile that
was half at herself, half at human nature, thus once more, once
again, proving itself And Ned, who had felt so bitterly the
absorption of his father and sister in their own affairs, their in-
difference to the feelings of others — Ned did the same. He
slurred over the sacrifice which his mother, at no small cost,
was bending her own will to make, and rewarded her with the
story of his own boyish happiness — how Norah had cast him off
once, how she loved him now. This was the best, the only re-
turn he could make to her. From her own serious, weighty
purpose, which involved (she felt) so much, he led her aside to
his love-tale, of which, for the moment at least, it was madness
to expect that anything could come.

" But you don't say anything 1 " he said at last, half offend-
ed, when he had done — or rather when her failure of response
had stopped the fulness of his speech. \\

" I don't know what I can say," she answered, with a cold-
ness which he felt at once. " This seems scarcely the time —
scarcely the moment^ "

" Of course," he said hurriedly, "I do not expect or hope
that it can be very soon."

"No one, I should think, would be so mad as to expect
that," said his mother ; " and these long, aimless engagements,
without any visible end -"

" I do not see how my engagement can be thought aimless,"
he said, growing hot.

" Not in your own mind. I suppose ; but so far as anything
like marriage is concerned, considering the state of affairs gene-
rally, I do not see much meaning in it," said Mrs. Burton cold-
ly. Your prospects are not brilliant. It was only last night,
for instance, that you proposed to burden yourself with me."

"Mother!"

" It is quite true. In answer to your grandfather's sensible
question how I was to live, you answered : with you. Did
you mean upon some hypothetical engagement, whatever you
may happen to get to support a wife — and me 1 "

He made no answer. A hot flush of mingled anger and pain
oame over him ; he was wrons somehow ; he did not quite see
how. He had missed the right way of making his announce-
ment, but still it was not his fault. He could not see how he
was to blame.

not

AT HIS GATES.

433

"Tou must not be surprised in these circumstances if I can-
not make any very warm congratulations," she added, *' Make
your mind easy, however, Ned. I never intended to be a bur-
den on you ; but even without that "

** What have I done, mother, that you should speak to me
so ? " he cried. "You were so different just now. It is not for
Norah's sake ? No ono could dislike Norah. What have I
done ? "

" Nothing," r^ ^ t \ and then, wit^ *hat faintest smile,
"you have actea »*ccorc-.g to your natui , xsed — like the rest.
I have no reason to complain."

Then there was a pause. He was a generous, tender-
hearted boy, full of love and sympathy ; but he never so much
as imagined, could not imagine, the state of feeling his mother
had been in — and, accordingly, could not understand where he
was wrong. Wrong somehow, unknowingly, unintentionally
— puzzled, affronted, sore at heart — he went away from her.
Was it mere caprice on her part ) What was it ? So it hap-
pened that the boy put his foot upon his mother's very heart ;
and then strained all his faculties, anxiously, affectionately, to
find out what had made her countenance change, and could not,
with all his efforts, discover what it was.

The smile remained on Mrs. Burton's face when she was left
alone. He had declined to hear her decision about the settle-
ment. Was it not natural that she should reconsider it, now
that she found how little interest he took in the matter 1 But it
is easier to let that intruder Love, who disorders reason, into a
woman's heart than to turn him out again. She did again
another novel thing ; she made a compromise. She sent for
her father at once, and entered into the matter with him. "I
allow that all you say is perfectly just," she said ; " but this is,
partly, a matter of feeling, papa." She siuiled at herself as
she said it, but yet did say it without flinching. " I will keep
a portion of my settlement — say half. It is, as you said, the
only thing I have to depend on."

" My dear," said poor Mr. Baldwin, " of course you have
always me to depend on. You are my only child. What I
have must come to you, Clara."

" But I don't want it to come to me, papa.'*
** No, that I am sure you don't \ but what is the use of
BB

434

AT HIS GATES.

money to me, but to make my child and her children comfort-
able — that is excepting, Clara — alvvays excepting what I feel
bound to do— what I have always done — in the cause of — God.
But, all the same, I cannot approve of any sacrifice of your
rights."

" I would rather not say any mor"« about it," she said.

And thus for the moment the discussion terminated. Ned
went down to the village again, and was made happy, almost
quite happy, by a talk with Norah ; and they went over to-
gether to the Bectory, and told Mrs. Dalton, as a substitute
for the absent mother, and were very wretched and very happy
together over their miserable prospects and their rapture of
early love. Norah, however, was sorry that he had told his
mother so prematurely. " She will think it heartless of us,
Ned, to think of being happy when she must be so miserable. Oh,
I would have broken it to her very gently. I would have iold
her how it happened — by accident — that we did not mean any-
thing. Oh, Ned, boys are always so awkward. You have
gone and made her think ! "

*• If you were to come and talk to her, Norah — "

" No, indeed. "What am I to er 1 A little upstart thing,
thrusting myself in, taking aw,/ her son. Oh, Ned, how
could you ? Go and give her a kiss, and say we never meant it.
Say 1 would never, never think of such a thing while everybody
is in such trouble. Say we are so sorry — Oh, Ned ! how can
you, you who are only a boy, be half sorry enough 1 "

With which salutary bringing down Ned went home, and
was very humble to his mother and very anxious to v in back
her confidence — an attempt in which he partly succeeded ; for,
having once begun to open her heart, she could not altogether
close it ; and a new necessity, a new want, had developed in
her. But he never made his way back entirely into that place
which had been his for a moment, and which he had forfeited
by his own folly. He never quite brought back the state of
mind in which she had considered that matter of the settle-
ment first. Next day Mrs. Burton left Dura with her father,
" on a visit," it was said ; and Ned went to town, " try see after"
his father's affairs. Poor boy I there was not much that he
could see after. He worked hard and laboriously, under his
grandfather's directions and under the orders of the people

'at his gates.

4d6

who had the winding-up of Mr. Burton's concerns in hand ; but
he had not experience enough to do much out of his own head ;
and it was in this melancholy way that his knowledge of busi>
ness began.

And poor little Norah, alone in the Gatehouse, went and
poured out her heart to Mr. Stephen, who listened to her with
a heart which throbbed to every woe of hers. A great woe
was hanging over the Haldanes, atrouble which as yet they
but dimly foresaw. Burton had ruined them in his prosperity,
and now, in his downfall, was about to drag them still lower.
Already the estate of Dura was in the mancet, with its man-
sion and grounds and woods and farms — and the Gatehouse.
They had got to feel that the Gatehouse was their home, and
all Stephen's happiness was connected with that window, with
the tailor and shoemaker who took their evening walks on the
other side of the way, with the rector and his morning discus-
sions, even with old Ann in her market cart. Ard how was
he now to go away and seek another refuge 1 Heavy were the
hearts in the Gatehouse. Norah, when Ned had gone, was
overwhelmed by terrors. Fears lest her mother should not ap-
prove, wondering questions about her unknown father, doubts
of Mrs. Burton, fears of Ned and for Ned, came upon her like
a host, and made her miserable. And then Mr. Rivers came
down, who had already made several attempts to see her, and
this time made her wretched by succeeding and telling her
another love tale, to which she could make no reply. But for
that incident at the Exhibition, and the pain it had brought
about, things might have ended otherwise. Had Cyril Rivers
made up his mind in May instead of delaying till July, the
chances were that Norah, flattered, pleased, and not unwilling
to suppose that she might perhaps love him in time, would
have given a very different answer. And then she asked her-
self in dismay, what would have happened when poor Ned
came 1 So that, on the whole, it was for the best, as people
say. The pain and shock of that discovery which she had
made when Lady Rivers drew her son away — and he went —
had been for the best ; though it would be hard to believe that
Cyril thought so, as he went back mortified to town, feeling
that it had cost him a great deal to make this sacrifice, and that
his sacrifice had been in vain.

486

AT HIS GATEa

Thus Dura changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an
eye. The great house was empty and desolate ; the great bell
pealed no more through all the echoes ; the noisy comings and
goings of the Burtons, the sound of them as they moved about,
the dash of Mr. Burton's phaeton and his wife's fine horses,
had all died out into the silence. Miss Jane plodded wearily
about the village, trying to find seme cheap cottage where
Stephen could find refuge when the property was sold. And
Norah, anxious and pale, and full of many terrors, lived alone
in her end of the house, and watched for the postman every
morning, and wondered, wondered, till her heart grew sick, why
no letters came.

Where was Helen 1 She had disappeared from them into
the unknown, as her husband had done. Was it into Hades,
into the everlasting darkness, that she had followed her lost,
as Orpheus followed Eurydice 1 A week passed, and the silent
days crept on, and no one could tell.

its roc
little
boats
been

AT HIS GATES.

437

; of an
>at bell
igs and
1 about,
horses,
wearily
B where
. And
id alone
a every
ck, why

im into
> Hades,
ler lost,
iie silent

CHAPTER XLIII.

ELEN DRUMMOND had a tedious voyage from South-
ampton to St. Malo. She was not a good sailor, nor
indeed a good traveller in any way. She was not
rich enough to procure for herself those ameliorations of the
weariness of journeys which are within the reach of every-
body who has money. She had to consult cheapness more
than comfort, and when she arrived at last in the bay, with all
its rocky islets rising out of the blue, beautiful sea, and the
little fortress city reigning over it, and all the white-sailed
boats skimming about like so many sea-birds, she would have
been unable to observe the beauty of the scene from sheer
weariness, if anxiety had net already banished from her every
thought but one.

Where was he 1 how should she find him ? was it real 1 was
it possible 1 could it be true ?

The boat was late of arriving ; it had been delayed, and was
not expected at the moment when the passengers were ready
to land. Helen looked, with a beating heart, upon all the
loungers on shore, wondering could he be among them ; but it
was not till almost all her fellow-passengers had left the vessel
that a tattered, grinning commissionaire came up to her, and
asked if she were Madame Drummond. When she answered,
a voluble explanation followed, which Helen, in her agitation,
and with ears unaccustomed to the voluble Breton-French
mixed with scraps of still less comprehensible English, under-
stood with great difficulty. Monsieur had been on the pier
half the ni^ht ; he had been assured by all the officials that the
boat could not arrive till noon. Monsieur had charged him-
self, Frangois, to be en the watch, and bring him news as soon
as the steamer was in sight ; iu pi ace of which he, the delighted
Francois, would have the gratification of leading Madame to
Monsieur. Half dead with excitement and fatigue, Helen fol-
lowed her guide. He led her along the rocky shore to where
a little steam ferry-boat puffed and snorted. Then she had to

I If

v!'

488

AT BIS OATEa

embark agaiu for a five minutes' passage across the bay. She
landed on the other side, so stupified with suspense, and with
the accumulated excitement which was now coming to a climax,
that she felt incapable of uttering a word. Her body was all
one pulse, throbbing wildly ; a crimson flush alternated with
dead pallor in her face ; her heart choked her, palpitating in
her throat. Whom was she going to meet 1 What manner of
man was it who said he was her Robert, who wrote as Kobert
wrote, who had called her to him, with the force of absolute
right 1 For was not Robert dead, dead, buried under the cold
river,, seven years ago 1 She was not happy, she was fright-
ened, as Norah said. Her position was incomprehensible to
her. She, Robert's spotless wife, his faithful widow — to whom
was she going 1 She did not know what the words meant that
were being poured into her ears. The figures she met whirled
past her like monsters in a dream. Her own weary feet obeyed
her mechanically ; she moved and breathed, and kept com-
mand of herself, she knew not how.

There is a little cottage on the very edge of the cliff, in that
village of Dinard on the Breton coast, which looks across the
bay into which the Ranee rushes impetuously meeting the great
sea-tides — ^and from which St. Servan opposite, St Malo with
its walls and towers, all the lip of the bay lined with houses,
with fortifications, with bristling masts and sails, show fair in
the sunshine. Coming into it from the dusty road, so small is
ic, so light, so close to the water, the traveller feels that he
must have come suddenly into the light poop cabin of some big
ship, lifting its breast high from the sea.

Here it was that Helen came in, her frame all one tremble,
breathless, stupified, carried along in the wild whirl of some
dream. She saw some one get up with a great cry — ^^and then
• — she saw nothing more. The excitement, the weariness, the
strangeness and terror that possessed her, were more than she
could bear. She fell down at Robert's feet, as she had done at
the, foot of the picture in the exhibition. It was perhaps the
easiest, gentlest way of getting over the great shock and con-
vulsions of the new life that had now to begin.

Helen was conscious after a while of a voice, of two voices
talking vaguely over her, one which she did not know,
one ^ At the sound of that her brain tried to rally ; she

AT HIS GATES.

489'

voices
know,
; she

tried to recollect. Where was she 7 — in St. Mary's Boad, in
the old days before the studio was built 1 that was what it felt
like. She could not see anything ; a whirling, revclving cloud
of darkuess went round and n und, swallowing her up. She
tried to raise her hand to grasp at something. Kow she was
sinking, sinking into that sea which had gleamed upon her for
a moment, through the window — a sea lull of ships, yet with
no saviour for her. If she could only move her hand, raise her
head, see something besides this blinding blackness. And then
again that voice ! She had fallen, fallen somewhere, and some-
thing buzzed loud in her ears, something ccmine th^t was
about to crush her — on the steps at St. l^Vary's Eohd.

" Helen I don't you know me 1 Look at me, if you can, my
own love I "

She gave a long, sobbing cry. She opened her .yes he . ,ily.
" Yes, Robert," she said. The wonder and the terror hnii ^one
away in her faint, with the seven years that created them.
When the soul loses the common thread of tim.: ..nd place it
comes back to its primal elements, to the thing, in it that are
everlasting. She answered out of her unconsciousness as (God
send itl) we shall answer our friends in heaven out of the
death-trance, not wondering — restoied to the unity of love
which is for ever and ever, not for a time.

She was lying on a little sofa, that window on one side of
her, with its glorious sea and sky and sunshine. On the other,
a man, with hair as white as snow, with ^'orah's eyes, looking
at her in an agony of tenderness, with a face worn and lined by
sufieriug and toil. The sight of him startled her so that she
came to herself in a moment. It st>>vi I'od her into the con-
sciousness that she was his wife, and lu a manner responsible
for him, for his well-being and comfort. She started up, won-
dering how she could think of herAf, indignant at herself for
taking up the foreground for a moment. " Oh, my dear, my
dear ! " she cried. " W hat. have they done to you, Robert ? "
and drew him to her, taking him into her arms.

Not frightened now, not wondering, not strange at all. The
strangeness was that he had been kept away from her so long,
cruelly kept away, to make him like this, whitened, worn,
old. AH at once strength and calm and self-command came
back to Helen. Except for his looks, the harm some one had

If
I \

' 1

I"' :>,«

i'l 1

440

AT BIS GATES.

done to him, this interval crumpled away like a burnt paper,
and disappeared, and was as if it had never been. She put
her arms round him, drew him to her with an indignant love
and tenderness. "My poor Robert I my poor Robert 1 how
you have wanted me," she said, with the tears in her eyes.

" Ah ! wanted you 1 " he cried ; and he too gave in to this
impulse of nature. He was not an impatient man claiming his
own, but a weary one come back to his natural rest. He put
his white head down upon hers, and in the relief and sudden
ease and consolation, wept like a child. It was more than joy ;
terrible fears had come to him at the last, terrors that his ap-
peal might be unwelcome — that his recollections might have
died out of her heart. He knew that she was in the sight of
the world faithful to him ; but whether her heart was true,
whether the surprise would be a joy, he did not know.

Let us leave them to tell their mutual story. The reader
knows one side of it. The other had come about thus. It
took a long time to tell it so as to satisfy Helen ; but it may
be put here into fewer words.

On the night when Robert, as he said, died, he had been
picked up by a tug steam-boat, which was on its way down
stream to take a vessel going to America down to the sea. He
had been all but dead, and with the addition of the care, dis-
tress, and anxiety through which he had passed before, partial
drowning was no joke to him. How it was that he managed
to get transferred from the little steamer into the ship, he had
never very clearly discovered. Whether he had passionately
entreated to be taken on board, or whether he had dashed him-
self once more into the river and been rescued this time by
the sea going vessel, he could not tell. But, anyhow, he had
been taken on the American ; and there, amid all the discom-
forts of a merchant ship, where there was no room for passen-
gers, and where his presence was most unwelcome, he had an
niness, which made his slow pa&«age across the Atlantic look
like a feverish dream to him. He knew nothing about it, ex-
cept as a horror and misery which had been. When the s^ ip
arrived, he had been transferred to an hospital, whe)re he lin-
gered until all hope of life had gone out of him, if indeed any
ever existed. And then, all at once, and unaccountably, he
had got well again, as people do over whom no anxious nurses

AT HIS QATES.

441

ex-
,'ip
lin-
any
he
irses

watch, who are of importance to no one. When he came to
life again he was one of the poorest of the poor, unknown, pen-
niless, an object of charity. In that position he could never
go home, never make himself known to those whom (he felt)
he had ruined, whom he had already made up his mind to leave
free at the cost of his life. Forlorn, hopeless, and miserable,
poor Robert had still the necessity upon him of maintaining
the worthless life which Providence had, as it were, thrust back
upon his hands. He went to the studio of a painter in New
York — that same John Sinclair whose name had been attached
to the " Dives." He had told his story fully and truly. When
a man asserts in a painter's studio that he is himself a painter,
the means are at hand for the verification of his assertion ; and
when Robert took the palette in his hand, Mr. Sinclair believed
his story. He had begun humbly, under this kind stranger's
help ; he had become a portrait painter, a branch of art which,
iu his youth, he had followed for the sake of bread and butter,
as so many do. But Robert, friendless and hopeless, driven
out of everything but art, had, by a mere instinct of self-pre-
servation, to keep himself alive, taken to his work in a way
which made it a very different thing from the paint which is
done for bread and butter. A very little bread and butter
sufficed him. But man does not live by bread alone ; and all
the better aliment, the food of his soul, he had to get somehow
out of his portraits. The consequence of this was, that gradu-
ally these portraits became things to talk of, things that people
went far to see, and competed to have. He cared so little for
it — ^was that why the stream of fortune came to him ? But
when his languid soul awoke after a while to a sense of the
work he was doing, Robert ceased to care little for it. He be-
gan to care much ; and as his portraits kept their populari1r|r
his gains increased. He became hungry for gain ; he grew a
miser, and overv/orked himself, thinking of his wife, thinking
of the child to whom he was dead. He managed to get some news
of them incidentally through his friend and former patron Sin-
clair ; he heard where they were, and that they were well. At
length, when he had scraped so much money together that he
thought he might venture upon some communication, his heart
went back to the agony of his parting, and the subject of his
last sketch returned to him. Ah 1 was he not Dives now,

lib

442

AT HIS OATSS.

stretching out vain hands, not daring to cry ! He could not
summon courage enough to write, but he could paint — he could
put all his despairing soul, which yet had a faint hope in it,
into that imploring face, those beseeching hands. He worked
at it night and day, throwing his whole heart and soul into the
canvas. And, with a heart trembling at his own temerity,
after he sent his picture to England he himself had come back,
bjflt not to England — he had not courage for that ; he was not
even sufficiently instructed to know whether it would be safe
for him to go back — whether he might bring the law upon hina
with fresh bugbears and troubles in its train — but he went to
France. He had come to Brest, and he had wandered to this
the nearest point from which communication with England Wos
easy. He had arrived at St. Malo in May, at the very ti^e
when Helen saw the picture in the Exhibition, and received its
message into her very heart. But he had not ventured to seil^d
his letter till months after — not till now.

" Helen ! " he said, trembling ; " will you stay with me
here 1 will you go with me, back to New York 1 What shall
we do?"

" Robert, let us go home."

" Can I go home ? I do not think so. I have a little
money for the child and you. I made it hardly — after I died.
I should not like to give it, once again to satisfy people who
suffered no more than we did."

" Oh, Robert," she said. " I have my story to tell you
too." And her story took as long in telling as his did ; for it
was difficult to her to remember that he knew nothing— that
he did not know what he had been accused of ; as difficult as it
was for him to understand the allusions she made to the lost
books and the censure which had been passed upon his name.
He would stop her and say, " What does that mean ?" a dozen
times in a single sentence. And then, as the story advanced
to its climax, impatience seized him, and a growing excitement.
He got up from bis seat beside her, and paced about the little
room. Then she saw, for the first time, that he was lame.
How he had suffered ! The seven years laa I not made much
difference to her ; her peaceful life had smoothed out the lines
which sorrow had made in her face. There was not a white
thread in her brown hair ; she had almost grown younger in-

At HtS GATES.

44d

stead of older^ having upon her wherever she went a reflection
of Norah's youth, which somehow she shared. But Robert was
lame, and walked with difficulty, a consequence of his almost
suicide ; he was old, thin, white-haired, with furrows of anx-
iety and longing and heart-hunger in his face. , All this had
been done by the man who had beguiled him into the doomed
bank, who had looked on calmly at his ruin, who had willingly
countenanced the destruction of his good name. Mrs. Drum-
mond had lived through it all, had got over her hot fits of
rage and indignation, and at this moment had her heart softened
towards Reginald Burton, whom she had saved. She was
not prepared for the excitement, the suppressed fury, the pas-
sionate indignation of her husband, to whom all this was new.
She told him of the paper she had extorted from her cousin
that last night, " which clears you entirely — " she said.

" Clears me ! " he cried, gnashing his teeth. " My God !
clears me ! I who have done nothing but suffer by him. Clears
me/"

" I do not quite mean that, Robert. You were cleared be-
fore. No one believed it. But we thought Golden only was
to blame. Now this paper is formal, and explains everything.
It makes it all easy for you."

He did not stop, as if this was anything consolatoty ; he
kept moving up and down, painfully, with his lameness. " And
that scoundrel has got off," he cried between his teeth — "got
off ! and has the audacity to clear me."

Poor Helen was disconcerted. She had forgotten her own fury
. of indignation when she first saw the accusation against him.
She had long, long grown used to all that, and used to the re-
flection that nobody believed it whose opinion was worth any-
thing. She had insisted upon Burton's confession and explana-
tion, she scarcely knew why — more as a punishment to him
than as a vindication of Robert. She was confused about it
altogether, not quite knowing what she meant. And now, in
the light of his indignation, she felt almost as if she had done
her husband an injury — insulted him. She faltered, and looked
at him wistfully, and did not know what to say. She had not
lost the habit of love, lut she had lost the habit of companion-
ship ; she had told her story wrongly, she did not know how to
bring him to her state of feeling, or to transport herself into

444

AT HIS GATES.

his. And this too was the fault of the man who had driven
Bohert to despair — the man whom she had saved.

"He has got off," she said humhly, "by my means. Bobert,
I tried revenge once, but I will never try it again. I could
not give him up, however bad he had been; when he was in my
power."

The sound of trembling in her voice went to his heari '* My
poor Helen I my sweet Helen ! " he cried, coming o her.
" Do you think I blame you ? You could not have doni other-
wise. For you there was but one course — ^but if I had the chance
now — "

Just then there was a commotion at the door, and sounds of
many voices. A great many exclamations in French, with one
or two broken questions in English, came to their years. " You
has you papiers, Domm you papiers. You say you is Jean-^ i
Jean Smiff, et pas " \

'* Je me fie i monsieur ici. Monsieur est-il chez lui ? O'est
un Anglais. II nous expliquera tout 9a," said another voice.
It was the Toice of the maire, whom Robert had made friends
with in his hunger for human companionship. The parley at
the door went on for a few minutes longer, and then there en>
tered a band of exoited Frenchmen. One, a gendarme from St.
Malo, carried an open telegram in his hand ; another, in a
blouse, kept his hand upon the shoulder of a burly Fnglisfaman
in a light coat. The maire brought up the rear. They seemed
such a crowd of people as they entered the little, light
room, that it was some moments before the three English peo-
ple thus brought face to face recognised each other. Helen
with difficulty suppressed a cry. Bobert stood confronting the
party with the flush of his indignation not yet subsided, with a
wonder beyond words in his eyes. As for the other, he showed
no sign of surprise. He was driven back to his last strong-
hold, forced to use all his strength to keep himself up and
maintain his courage. His eye dilated and gave a flutter of
wonder at the sight of Helen. It was evident that he did not
recognise her companion. He kept his arms folded, as if for
self-preservation, to keep within him all the warmth, all the
courage possible, physically to keep up and support himself.

The three men rushed into explanation all at once. A tele-
gram had been received at St. Malo, describing an Englishman

AT HIS GATES.

445

who was supposed to have gone there, and whose description,
which the gendarme held out, in the telegram, corresponded
exactly with that of the prisoner. Thejprisoner, however, called
himself Smith. Smiff — or Smitt, as his pursuers pronoun-
ced it — and produced pa^ fs which were en rhgle ; but he could
not explain what he was djing here ; he showed no inclination
to be taken to the English consul. On the contrary, he had
crossed to Dinard as soon [as he heard that inquiries had
been made about him at his hotel. While all this was being
told the stranger stood immovable, with his arms folded ; he
did not understand half of it. His French was as deficient as
, the French of untravelled Englishmen usually is, and the tumult
around him, at the same time, confused his mind and quickened
his outward senses. He could not make out what his chances
of liberation were ; but his eyes were open to any possibility
of escape. They were bloodshot and strained those eyes ; now
and then that flutter of wonder, of excitement, of watchfulness,
came into them, but he showed no other sign of emotion. At
such a terrible crisis all secondary sensations perish ; he had
no time to wonder what Helen, whom he had left behind him
in England, should be doing here. Eather it was natural that
everybody connected with his fate should be here, gathering
round him silently to see the end.

Thus this encounter had but little effect upon Burton ; but
it would be impossible to describe the effect it had upon the
m&n who stood opposite to him, whom he had not recognised.
Robert Drummond had suffered as few men ever suffered. He
had died — he had come alive again — he had lived two separate
lives. For some years up to this day his existence had been
that of a man deprived of all the hopes and consolations of life
— ^a man miserably {ylone, dead to every one belonging to him.
Even the return to life which he had tried to realise this
morning was no more than an experiment. He might never
be able to conquer, to forget those seven ghosts which stood
between him and his wife and child. He could not take up
his life again where he left it — that was impossible. And all
this had been done by the influence of the man before him, who
was ia his power, whom he might if he would give over to pri-
son and trial and punishment A gleam of fiercoi joy shot
through PruQiQioiid's heart, and then — ~*

i 1

i I
I ill

446

AT HIS GATES.

They stood facing each other, with the Frenchmen grouped
about them. But Burton had not, beyond the first glance,
looked at his judge. His face confronted him, but his eyes did
not ; he had escaped as yet the knowledge who it was.

A thousand and a thousand thoughts whirled through Drum-
mond's mind ; he had only a moment to decide in ; he had the
past to satisfy, and the burning, fiery indignation of tlie pre-
sent moment, in which for the first time he had identified and
comprehended the past. Give him up ! punish him ! Should
such a bcoundrel get off, when innocent men had so bitterly
suffered 1 Let him fall, and bring down in his train all who
were concerned — all who made a prey of the ignorant and the
poor ! This wave of thought possessed him with a whirl and
sweep like thcf rushing tide — and then there came the interval
of silence, the moment when the waters fell back and all was

still. . *:

** Bevenge ! I tried revenge once, but I will never try It
again ! " Who was it that had thus said this close to him, so
that the very air repeated and repeated it, whispering it in his
ear 1 He had himself been dead, and he had come alive again.
His new life, which had commerced this morning, was spotless
as yet. He had to decide, decide, decide in a moment how it
should be inaugurated, by mercy or by judgment — by the sin
(was it not a sm ?) of helping the escape of a criminal, or by
the righteous deed (where was it said that this might be a sin
too?) of handing him over to punishment. How his soul was
toss^ upon these waves ! He stood as in the midst of a great
battle, which raged round him. Fierce arrows tore his heart,
coming from one side and another, he could not tell how.
Give up the accursed thing— punish the unworthy soul — be just!
be just ! But then that other, ** Neither have I condemned
them ; go and sin no more." And all had to be d<)ne in a
minute, while those voluble explanations interlaced each other,
and each man expounded his case. Drummond glanced at his
wife for help, but she dared not look at him. She sat on the
sofa against the light, with her hands tightly clasped in her
lap. Was she praying 1 For so long, out of the depths of his
hell. Dives, poor Dives, had not dared to pray.

He did not know what he said Wl en at length he spoke ; it
was some commonplace, some nothing. But it attracted at

go-

AT HIS GATES.

447

once the attention of the prisoner. Burton turned round, and
gazed at the man whom he thought dead. He did not recog-
nize the voice, except that it was a voice he knew ; he did not
even recognize the face, which had grown prematurely old,
framed in its white hair, at the first glance ; but there crept
over him a shudder of enlightenment, a gleam of perception.
His senses were quickened by his own position. He shook
where he stood as if with cold or pa'sy. He looked at Helen,
he looked at the man by her side. Then an inarticulate cry
came from him ; terror of he knew not what, deprived him,
fortunately, of all power of speech. He fell back in his fear,
and his attendants thought he meant to escape. They threw
themselves between him and the door. It was then that Drum-
mond spoke in his haste, scarcely knowing what he said.

" I know him," he said in French. " It is a long time since
we have met, and he has just recognized me, you perceive. We
are not friends, so you may trust me. His papers are quite
right, and it is a mistake about the telegram. Look here ; this
is not his description. * Nez ordinaire ;* why, he has a long
nose. ' Teint brun ;' he is quite fresh-coloured, and his hair is
This is a great mistake. Monsieur le Maire, 1 know this
and I will be responsible for him. You must let him

grey,
man,

thought so," said the maire, pleased with his own discrim-
ination. **Je I'ai dit. Monsieur nous expliquera tout qa.,
Voilg.ce que j'ai dit."

** Mais, monsieur " began the gendarme.

Helen sat ag >inst the light, seeing nothing, and closed her
eyes, and clasped her hands in her lap. Burton, bewildered
and terror-stricken, looked on without showing any emotion,
perhaps the passiveness of his face was his best safeguaitl.
Five minutes of expostulation and explanation followed, tfnd
then gradually the frenchmen edged themselves out of the
room. Fortunately, Morsieur le Maire had taken this view
from the beginning ; he had been sure it was a mistake. When
they were got rid of at last, the three who were left behind
looked at each other in a silence which was more significant
than words. Burton dropped into a chair j he was not able to
stand nor to speak, but kept gazing at Drummond with a piti-
ful wonder and terror. At last —

AT HIS GATES.

" Are you Bobert Drummond f " he asked hoarsely. ** Have
you come back from your grave "

*' I am Robert Drummond/' said the other ; " and you are—
John Smith, who must be got out of here as soon as possible.
Have you money 1 "

"Yes."
. "Then I advise you to go away at once. Go up t# Pinan
by the rivernude, or walk to St. Brieuc to get the train. In
the one case you are on your way to Brest, where there are
ships always sailing ; by the other you can get to Paris or
wherever you please. You may wait here till the evening, if
you chdose ; but then go."

" I will go to Brest," he said humbly.

"I would rather not know where you went ; but go you
must My wife and I met to-day for the first time for seven
years ; we do not wish for company, you may suppose." i

Drummond's voice was very stem. He had no compassibn
for the man who stood thus humbled and miserable before
him ; not for him had he done this. And Burton was too much
stupified, too much bewildered, to make any direct reply, lie
looked at Helen with dull wonder, and asked under his oreath-r-

" Did you know 1"

" No," she said. " It came upon me almost as suddenly as
upon youi"

Then he pulled some papers out of his pocket.

" These are English papers. I don't know if it is long since
you have left. But you might like to see them." When he
had done this, he made a few steps towards the door, where
the old French bonne was waiting to show him where to go.
Then he paused, and turned round again, facing them. " What
a man says in my position is very Uttle to anybody," he said ;
" but — ^I want to say to you. Forgive me. I have helped to do
you dreadful harm ; but I — I did not mean it. I never meant
it. I meant to get gain myself; but I never wished to harm
you."

And then he disappeared, saved again, saved at his utmost
need — surely this time finally saved — and by those .whom he,
had injured the most. When he reached the clean little room
where he was to stay all day, it appeared to Reginald. Burton
that he must be in a dream. The same feeling had been in hia

mind

him;

comm

of cir(

derme

first b

at a m

Tha

walke(

arrivec

for An

immed

conseqi

weary

over am

world

^ith hi

He had

poverty

whethe.

work, p

AT HIS QATEa

44i»

mind ever since he escaped from England. All was strange to
him ; and strangest of all was the fact that he could no longer
command or regulate matters by his own will, but was thesport
of circumstances, driven about he knew not how. His bewil-
derment was so great that he was not able to think. Saved
first by a helpless woman, whose powera he would have laughed
at a month ago ; saved now by a ghost out of the grave !

That night he left Dinard under cover of the darkness, and
walked to St. Brieuc, where he got the train for Brest He
arrived there in time to get on board of a vessel about to sMl
for America. And thus Beginald Burton escaped from the
immediate penal consequences of his sins. From the other
consequences no man ever escapes. The prison, the trial, the
weary round of punishment he had eluded; but his life was
over and ended, and everything that was worth having in the
world had abandoned him. Love was not his to carry away
\f ith him ; reputation, honour, wealth, even comfort were gone.
He had to make a miserable new beginning, to shrink into
poverty, obscurity, and dependence. It would be hard to say
whethe. these were more or less easy to bear than the prison
work, prison life, prison garb from which he had escaped.

450

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XLIV.

I HIS was the end of Mr. Burton, of Dura — Mr. Burton,
of the great City firm, he who had been known as one
of the greatest of commercial magnitudes, he who had
ruined as many people as if he had been an emperor. For
some time there was a very r i <at deal about it in the newspa-
pers, and his concerns were exposed to the light of day. He
involved many others with him in his downfall, and some in
his shame. If he had been taken, he would have joined in
prison those men whom in our own day we have seen degraded
from a high position in society down to the picking of oakum
in gaol — men whom we all pour our loathing upon at the fo-
ment of their discovery, but of whom we say " poor souls ! " a
few months after, when some clever newspaper correspondent
has a peep at them, disguised in the prison garb, and known as
numbers 300 and 301. Burton missed the prison and the pity ;
but he did not miss the punishment. In spite of various at-
tempts that were made to stop it, the investigation of his affairs
was very full and clear. It became apparent from his own pri-
vate books, and that one of Rivers's which had been found in
bis safe, that the bank had been in reality all but ruined when
it was made into a joint-stock company. Burton and his col-
league had guaranteed the debts, and put the best face possible
upon things generally ; and Mr. Golden's management, and an
unexpected run of good luck, had all but carried the labouring
concern into clear water. It was at this period that Burton,
thanking his stars or his gods, withdrew from the share in the
management which he had held nominally, and left it to Golden
to complete the triumph of daring and good fortune. How
this failed is already known to the reader. The mystery of the
lost books was never cleared up ; for Golden was out of the
way, enjoying his honeymoon, when the private affairs of the
other conspirator were thus thrown open to the light of day.
But there was enough in the one book found among Mr. Bur-
Eton's to show how very inconvenient to him the finding uf the

had

AT HIS GATES.

451

others would have been. Thus daylisht blazed upon all those
tortuous, gloomy paths, and showed now the desire of self-in-
terest guided the man through them, with an absolute indiffer*
ence to the interests of others. He had not meant any harm,
as he said ; he had meant his own gain in the first place, hif
own recovery M'hen his position was threatened, his own safety
when danger came. He had not set out with a deliberate in-
tention of ruining others ; but this is a thing which nobody
ever does ; and he had not cared &fU wards how many were
ruined, so that he could hold on his way. Such cases happen
now and then, and human justice cannot touch them ; but most
generally Nemesis comes sooner or later. Even at the worst,
however, his material punishment was never so hard as that of
some of his victims. The loss of the trust-money, which had
been the immediate cause of his ruin, took the very bread out
of the mouths of a family of orphans ; but Mr. Burton, at the
lowest depths of his humiliation, had always bread enough,
and to spare. He was never even thrown into such mental
anxiety, such stress of painful calculation, as that into which
the inhabitants of the Gatehouse were cast by his downfall.
Miss Jane went painfully all over Dura, looking at the cottages,
to see if by any means something could be found or contrived
to suit Stephen ; and her heart sank withinher as she inspected
the damp, low-roofed places, which were so very diflferent from
the warm old wainscoted rooms, the comfort of the Gatehouse.
When the property was sold, however, it was found that the
Gatehouse had been made into a separate lot, and had been
bought, not by the rich descendant of the old Harcourts who
had got I Jura, but by some one whose name was unknown.

" Somebody who is going to live in the house himself, no
doubt," Miss Jane said, with a very long face ; and I am sure
I wish him well in it, whoever ho iriay be," she added, with a
struggle. " But oh, Norah ! what a thing it will be for us to
go away !"

" If I knew him, I would go to him, and beg for your rooms
for you. He never would have the heart to turn you out, if he
was a good man," cried Norah. " For us it does not master ;
but oh, Miss Jane, for you !"

"It cannot be helped, my dear," said Miss Jane drying her
eyes. " We have no right to it, you know. It does seem

f fmmi -

f 52 AT HIB GATES.

hard that we should be ruined by his prosperity, and then, as
it were, ruined again by his downfall It seems hard ; but it is
not anybody's fault. Of course when we accepted it we khew
the penalty. He might have turned us out at any time. No,
Norah ; we have no reason to complain."

" That makes it worse," cried impulsive Norah. " It is al-
ways a comfort when one can think it is somebody's fault.
And so it is — Mr. Burton's fault. Oh, how much harm he has
done 1 Oh, what a destroyer he has been ! He has done as
much h&rm as a war or a pestilence," cried Norah. " Think of
poor — papa ! "

She had always to make a pause before that name, not believ-
ing in it somehow, feeling it hurt her. By this time she had
heard all about the meeting between her father and mother,
and the day had been fixed when she was to join them ; but
still she had a sore, wounding, jealous sense that the new
father was her rival — that he might be almost her enemy.
Fathers, on the whole, seemed but an equivocal advantage to
Norah. There was Mr. Burton, who had ruined and shamed
every one connected with him ; and there was poor— papa,
who might, for anything she knew, ti^e all the gladness out of
her own life.

" Oh, hush my dear ! " said Miss Jane. "Mr. Burton has
been a bitter acquaintance to us ; but he is Ned's father, and
we must not complain."

Just then there was a knock at the door, and Ned himself
came in. He came from town, as he did often, to spend the
evening with his betrothed. Their days were runnmg very
short now, and their prospects were not encouraging. He had
not even time to look for any emplovment forhimseu, so much
was he occupied with his father's affairs ; and Norah was going
away, and when dhould they meet again 1 These evenings
which they spent together were very sweet ; but they were
growing daily sadder as they approached more closely to the
shadow of the farewell. But this time Ned came in with a
flush of pleasure in his face. His eyes were so brightened by
it, and his colour so much improved, that he looked ** quite
handsome," Miss Jane thought j and he walked in with some-
thing of the impulsive satisfaction of old days.

"My grandfather is a brick," he said, " after all. He has

AT HIS OATEH.

458

fiven me my fortune. He has helped me to do something I
ad set my heart on. Miss Jane, don't think any more of
leaving the Gatehouse. So long as I live nobody can turn you
out."

" What do you mean, Ned 1 "

" I mean that dear old grandpapa has been awfully ^ood to
me," said Ned ** and the Gatehouse is mine. I love it, Miss
Jane. Don't you say anything. You may think it will be bit-
ter for me to come here after lul that has passed ; but I love it.
Since ever I was a boy, T have thought this room the dearest
place in the world — ever since Norim sat and talked rubbish,
and frightened me out of my life. How well I remember that !
She has forgotten years ago ; but I shall never forget. What
are you cijing about, Miss Jane ? Now this is verv hard upon
a fellow, 1 must say. I thought it was ^ood news.

" And so it is — blessed news, you dear, dear kind boy ! "
cried Miss Jane. " Oh, children ! what can I say to you f
God bless you ! And God will bless you for thinking of the
afSicted first, before yourselves."

I had nothing to do with it — I knew nothing about it," cried
Norah proudly ; and all at once, without any warning, she
threw herself upon Ned, and gave him a sUdden kiss on his
brown cheek. For five minutes after none of the three were
very coherent ; for to do a good action when you are young
makes you feel very foolish, and ready to cry with anyone who
cares to cry. Ned told them all about it between laughing
and sobbing — how his grandfather had given him his portion,
and how it was the best possible investment to buy the Gate-
house. " For you see," said Ned, " when Norah makes up her
mind to marry, we shall have a house already. As for every-
body here knowing what has happened, everybody all over the
country knows," he added with a hot flush on his cheek ; " and
at Dura people like me — a little, and would not be unkind as in
other places. And how could I let the place Norah had been
brought up in — ^the place I love — go to other people ? So,
Miss Jane, be happy and set your brothtjr's mind at rest. No-
body shall disturb you here as long as I live ; and if I should
die, it would go to Norah."

" Oh, Ned, hush i " cried Norah, putting up her hand to his
lips.

454

AT HIS GATES.

^\iid when they went out into the garden, and wandered
about and talked. Nothhig but this innocent and close associa-
tion, with no one to think it might be improper or to call themto
account, could have made exactly such a bond as that which
existed between these two innocent young souls. They were
lovers, and yet they were half brother and sister. They, talked
of their plans with the wistful certainty and uncertainty of
those M'ho feel that another villi may come in to .shatter all
their purposes, though in themselves they are so unalterable
and sure. There was this always hanging over them, like the
sword iit the fable, of which they were conscious, though they
would not say a word about it. To-night their spirits were
raised. The facts that th.h familiar place was theirs^ that Ned
was actually its master, that here they might spend their days
together as man and wife, exhilarated them into childish delight.

'* I always think of you 03 in that room," he said to her,
"when I picture my Norah to myself ; and there is never half
an hour all day long that I don't do that. I always see the
old curtains and the funny old furniture. And to think it is
ours, Norah, and that we shall grow old here, too ! "

"I never mean to grow old," said Norah. "Fancy Ned,
mamma h not old, and she is nineteen years older than me.
Nineteen years — twenty years ! It is as good as a century ;
it will never come to an end ! "

end," said wu
years' additional

Ned, in the ad-

age, " at least we

"Or if it does come to an
ditional discretion of two
shall have had our day."

With this chastened yet delightful consciousness of the life
before them they parted that evening. But next time they
met Ned was not equally bright. He had been very sorely
tried by the newspapers, by the shame he had to bear, by the
looks askance which were bestowed on " JBurton's son.'*

" I shall never be able to stay there," he said, pouring out
his troubled heart to Norah. " I cannot bear it. Fancy hav-
ing to hear one's father insulted, and not being able to say ^
word. I cannot do it ; oh, Norah, I cannot ! We must give
«p the thought of living here. I must go abroad."

"Where Ned ? "

"Oh, I don't know. America, Australia — anywhere. I can-
not stay here, Anywhere that I can earn my bread."

AT HIS OATES.

4d5

** Ned/' said Norah, her happy voice all tuned to tones o^
creeping. "Remember I am mamma's only child, ^he has got
-> some one else now ; but, after all I am her only child."

" Do you think I forget that ?" he said. " It is because I am
afraid, because I feel, they will never, never trust you to me —
so useless as I am — my father's son. Oh, Norah, when I think
it all over, my heart is like to break ! "

" But, Ned, you were in such good spirits last night."

" Ah but last night was different. My own Norah ! if they
said no, dear, if they were angry — Oh, Norah ! don't hate me
for saying it — what would you do ? "

" What could I do 1 " she said, with her blown eyes blazing,
half in indignation, half in resolution. "And what do you
think they are made, of Ned, to dare to say such a thing to mel
Was mamma ever cruel 1 I would do just what I will do now ;
I would say, * Ned, please don't! dear Ned, don't !' But if you
would, notwithstanding all I said to you, of course I must
go too."

" My own Norah ! But now they are going to take you
away from me, and when, when shall I see you again % "

" People go to St. Malo by the boat," said Norah demurely.
" It sails from Southampton, and it gets there in I don't re-
member how many hours. There is nothing against people
going to St. Malo that want to go."

And thus once more the evening had a more cheerful ter-
mination. But none of the party were cheerful when Norah
picked up all her little belongings, and went up to town to Dr.
Maurice, who was to be her escort. Probably, of all the party,
she herself was the most cheerful; for she was the one who
was going away to novelties which could not but be more or
less agreeable to her imagination, while the others, in the
blank of their daily unchanging existence, were left behind.
Miss Jane cried over her, Mrs. Haldane bade God bless her,
and as for Stephen, he drew her close to him, and could nc t
•peak.

" I don't know what life will be worth, Norah, without your
mother and you," he said, looking up to her at last with the
pt^t,lent smile he had worn since ever Norah could remember —
the one thing in the world which was more pathetic than sor-
row itself ; for he loved Helen, and missed her to the bottom

456

AT HIS GATES.

of his heart — ^loved her as a disabled , shipwrecked man may
love a woman altogether out of his reach, most purely, most
truly, without thought or hope of any return — ^but as no man
may justly love a woman who has a husband by her side.
This visionary difference, which is yet so real, Stephen felt,
and it made him very sad ; and the loss of the child gave him
full warrant to look as sad as he felt.

" But, oh, Stephen ! let us not complain,*' said Mrs. Haldane
** for has it not been shown to us beyond all question that
everything is for the best."

All for the best ! All that had happened — Mr. Burton's.
1 un, the tragical overthrow of kin family, the destruction of
poor Ned's hopes and prospects, the shame and humiliation and
misery — had all been so " overruled," as Mrs. Haldane would
have said, that their house was more firmly secured to them
than ever, and was theirs, most likely, as long as Stephen
lived ! It was a small matter to be procured at such a cost ;
but yet ix> was a satisfaction to her to feel that so many laws
had been overthrown on her account, and that all was for the
best.

As for Ned's parting with Norah, it is a thing which must
not be spoken of. It took place in the cab in which her young
lover conveyed her from the station to Dr. Maurice's door.
Ah, what rending of the young hearts there was as they tore
themselves asunder ! What big, hollow eyes, with the tears
forced back from them, what gulps of choking sorrow swallowed
down, as Ned, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left,
stalked away from Dr. Maurice's door.

To tell the truth. Dr. Maurice himself was not very com-
fortable either. He had got a great fright, and he had not
recovered it. His brain was still confused ; he felt as if he
had been beaten about the head ; a dull, hot colour dwelt
upon his cheeks. He tried to explain to himself that he was
feverish ; but he was not feverish — or at least it was only his
mind, not his body, which was so. It was partly wonder, but
chiefly it was fright, on account of his own hair-breadth escape.
At the time when he had made that proposal to Helen, he be-
lieved, as she did, and everybody else, that her husband had
died years ago. And good heavens ! what if she had not
refused ? Dr. Maurice grew hot and cold all over, he actually

AT HIS GATES.

45?

.__>^

shuddered, at the supposition. And yet such a thing might
have happened. He went reluctantly, yet with curiosity, to
see his old friend. He wondered with a confused and troubled
mind whether Helen would have said anything about it —
whether Drummond would take any notice of it. The doctor
was impatient with Drummond, and dissatisfied altogether as to
his conduct. A man, he reflected, cannot do that sort of thing
with impunity To be for seven years as though he had never
been and then to come to life again and interfere with every-
body's affairs ! It was hard. Drummond had eot his full share
of sympathy ; he had turned his whole world upside down.
Seven years ago he had been mourned for as few men are
mourned ; and now it was a mistake, it was almost an imperti-
nence that he should come to life again, as if nothing had happen-
ed But nevertheless Dr. Maurice volunteered to take Norah to
M, Mak). He was glad to do it — to rub out the recollection of
that ^Is^ »tep of his — to show that he bore no malice, and that
no fcho*ight8 were in his mind which were inconsistent with his
old frien'lship for Robert and respect for Robert's wife.

Robert* wife ' She had called herself so when she was but
Robert's widow. But nobody understood, nobody thought,
what a change it was to Helen to fish up her old existence
again, and resume its habits as if there had been no break in it.
Love had conquered the strangeness at first ; but th^re were so
many strangenesses to be conquere<] . She had fallen into so
different a channel from that ip\.o wt (chliis thoughts had been
diverted. They were both unchar ^^ed in their affections ; but
how different in everything el&e ! They v/ere each other's
nearest, closest, dearest ; and } ot they had to nake acquain-
tance with each other over agrin. Nothing car be more strange
than such a close union, accompanied by such a total ignorance.
It was not even as if Helen had remained as he had known her
— had received no new influen. ^ into her lif Both had an
existence unknown to the other. Robert in the joy of his re-
covered identity, in the happiness of finding that there was
still love and companionship for him in the world, took the
reunion more simply than Helen did, and i^ijuoied its difficulties
or did not feel them. He had always taken tilings more simply
than she. His absolute faith in her, his simple delight in find-
ing her, his fond admiration of her, revived in Helen some of

I'll

458

AT HIS GATES.

her old feelings of suppressed wonder and half doubt. But that
doubt was hurible? nc y than it had been once. In the old
life a ghost of impatience had been in her ; she had doubted
his powers, and chafed at his failures. Now she began to doubt
whether she had ever und( rstood him — whether she had done
him justice. For once, at least, Robert had risen to that
height of power which passion sometimes forces almost beyond
the reach of genius. He had made alive and put upon a dead
piece of canvas, for all the world to see, one face which was a
revelation out of the worlds unknown. Helen's heart had
never wanted any additional bond to the husband whom she
had chosen and clung to through good and evil ; but her mind
had wanted something more than his easy talent, his exquisite
skill, the gentle, modest pitch of imagination which was all that
common life moved him to. But on that point she was satisfied,
now. The only drawback was, she was no longer sure that it
was Robert. He was himself and yet another. He was her
own by a hundred tender signs and sureties ; and yet he was
strange to her — strange !

And it was thus, with a suppressed excitement, which
neither told, that the reunited pair awaited their child's coming.
She breathless with curiosity and anxiety to know what Norah
would think of her unknown father ; he eager to make acquan-
tance with the new creature whom he knew only as a child.
" The child " he called her, till Helen smiled at his pertinacity,
and ceased to remind him that Norah was no longer a child.
Their excitement rose very high when the steamboat came in.
Helen's feelings were, as usual, by far the most complicated.
Norah was her own creation, if we may say so, framed by her,
cultivated by her — not only flesh of her flesh, but heart of her
heart, and mind of her mind ; yet the influence of Norah's
opinions, Norah's ways of thinking, was strong upon her
mother, almost more strong than Helen's were on Norah ; for
the latter had all the confidence of youth, the former all the
hesitation of middle age. What if Norah should not " take to"
the new father — the stranger who yet was so truly her own
Robert of old 1 Neither the one nor the other even so much
as recollected Dr. Maurice — the poor man who was bracing up
his courage to meet them, wondering what they might think.
JLnd they thought of him simply not at all.

AT HIS GATES.

45a

And Norah a Hed that rocky shore with an unconceal-

able, almost av( jealousy of her father. A shade of that

emotion, half si .0, half pain, with which a young woman re-
gards her mother's second marriage was in her mind. It waa
a partial desecration of her idea of her mother, and she was
jealous of the new companion who naturally must be more to
Helen than even she herself could be. She was jealous, though
she had long given her mother a rival more dangerous still in
Ned ; but in such feelings no cue is reasonable. Dr. Maurice
had stolen into her confidence, she knew not how, and, partly
out of pure perversity, was very strenuous in Ned's favour, and
had promised to plead his cause. The wretched man was al-
7i..ost glad that there should be this new complication coming
along with Norah, to perplex from the very beginning her
father's relations with her. Had things been as he once hoped
— had he been able to make Norah his own child, as ho had
tried to do — then he would have resisted Ned to his last gasp ;
but as she vcas not his, he was wickedly glad that she should
not be altogether Robert's, but that from the first his should
be but a divided proprietorship.

" I will do what I can to make things easy for you, Norah,"
he said, as they drew near St. Malo, half out of love, half out
of spite. " I will give you wliat I meant to leave you, and
that should get over part of the difl&culty."

"Oh, Dr. Maurice, you have always been so good to me ! "
cried heedless Norah. "If it had been you instead of
papa "

Blie was angry with herself whan she had made that foolish,
hasty speech ; but, oh ! how sweet it was to her companion !
What baiin it shed upon those awkward sorenesses of his ! He
drew her hand through his arm, and bent over her with the
tenderest looks.

" It would be strange if I did not do my best for my little
Norah," he said, with something like a tear in his eye. Hypo-
crite ! If she hr.d been his little Norah, then heaven have
mercy upon poor Ned !

They landed, and there was all the flutter and agitation
of meeting, which was more confusing, more agitating, than
meetings generally aie though these are always hard enough
to manage. They went together across the bay to the little

K'^mmmmmm

460

AT HIS GATES.

cottage on tb« cliff. They took a long time to settle down.
Robert hung about his child as if she had been a new toy, un-
able to keep from gazing at her, touching her, recalling what
she used to be, glorying and rejoicing over the possession of
her ; while Helen, on ner side, watched too with a painful
closeness, reading the thoughts in Norah's eyes before they had
come. Sh« wanted to jump into certainty at once. But they
had to eat, and drink, and rest ; they had to talk of all that
had happened — of all that might yet happen. And so the first
days passed, and the family unconsciously reunited itself, and
the pytraordinary sank, no one knowing how, into the blessed
Cf'lrn of every day.

-\iid then there occurred an event which took all the com-
pv^vy by surpiise : Norah fell in love with her father. She
" tt ok to" him as a girl might be expected to take to a man
whcge image she was. She was more like him a great deal
thfta -he was like her motlwr. Her hasty, impulsive ways, her
frcsli simplicity of soul, were all his. She had been thought to
resemble her mother before ; but when she was by her father's
side, it was apparent in a moment whom she most resembled.
She discovered it herself with a glow of delight. " Why,
mamma, he is like me ! " she cried, with a delightful youthful
reversal of the fact. And poor Helen did not quite like it.
It is terrible, but it is true — for the first moment it gave her
a pang. The child had been all hers ; she had almost ceased
to remember that there could be any sharing of her. She had
been anxious about Norah's reception of her father ; but she
was not quite prepared for this. Dr. Maurice, for his part,
was simply furious, and went as near to hating Robert Drum-
mond as it was possible to do ; but then, of course, that feeling
on Maurice's part was ! imply ludicrous, and deserved nothing
but to be laughed at. This curious event made the most tragi-
comic convulsion in the cottage on the cliff.

AT HIS GATES.

CHAPTER XLV.

ND now all the threads are shortening in the shuttle,
and the web is nearly woven out. If any one has ever
supposed for a moment that Robert Drummond and
his wife would make a last appearance as cruel parents, inter-
fering with their daughter's happiness, it does not say much
for the historian's success in elucidating their characters. If
Norah had wanted to marry a bad man, they would no doubt
have made a terrible stand, and made themselves very un-
happy ; but when it was only their own prejudices, and poverty,
and other external disadvantages that had to be taken into ac-
count, nothing but the forecasting imagination of two timid
lovers could have feared for the result. When two people have
themselves married upon nothing, it is so much more easy for
them to see how that can be managed over asain ; and, heaven
save you, good people 1 so many of us used to marry upon
nothing in the old days.

But a great deal had to happen before this could come
to pass. The Drummonds went home to England late in the
autumn, and Robert was received back by the world with such
acclamations as perhaps have not greeted a man of his profes-
sion in England for ages. Of itself the picture of " Dives " had
made a great impression upon the general mind : but when his
strange story became pub)ic, and it was known that the picture
of the year nad been painted by a man risen, as it were, out of
the grave, wanner still became the interest in it. The largest
sum which had been given for a picture for years was offered
for this to tlio resuaoitated paintor. Helen, alwavs visionary,
revolted from tiie very thought of selling this picture, which
had been the link between herself and her husband, and which
had so many associations to them both ; but Robert had too
much practical good sense to yield to this romantic diflSculty.
" I am no longer Dives," he said, m he drew his wife's arm
through his own, and took her out with him to conclude the
bargain. It increased the income which Robert's American

►"^»«i«SSi;.T;»»r

^^'-

462

AT BIS GATES.

gains brought him, and made them a great deal more comfort-
able. But Helen would never visit at the great house where
** Dives " was, and she would have given half her living to have
possessed the greatest work her husband ever produced — the
only one by which, all the critics said, he would be known to

Eosterity. This was one of the disappointments of her new
fe, and it was without doubt an unreasonable disappointment,
as so many are that sting us most deeply. The Dnimmonds
were so fortunate, after some waiting and bargaining, as to se-
cure their old house in St. Mary's Road, with the studio in
which such happy and such terrible houra had been passed. It
was beyond their means ; but yet they made an efPort to pur-
chase this pleasure for themselves. And here for two years
the family lived together unbroken. Now and then they went
to the Gatehouse, and made the hearts of the Ualdanes gjlad.
And painters would throng about the studio, and the old life
came back as if it had never had a break. By times Helen
would sit in the familiar room, and ask herself was it now — the
present — or was it the past which had come back ? The differ-
ence was, there was no child curled against the window, with
brown hair about her shoulders, and a book in her arms, but
only that slim, fair, brown-eyed maiden, who wore a ring of
betrothal upon her finger, and had thoughts which travelled
far by times after her distant lover ; and that the master of
the house, when he came into the room, was not the light-
footed, youthful-browed Robert of old, but a white-haired man,
growing old before his time. These were the changes ; but
everything else was unchanged.

Robert Drummond, however, never painted another picture
like that " Dives ; " it was the one passion flower, the single
great blossom of his life. He painted other pictures as he
used to do, which were good Drummonds, specimens of that
master which the picture-dealers were very willing to have and
collectors to add to their treasures, but which belonged to a
world altogether distinct from the other. This Helen felt too
with a gentle pang, but not as she had felt it of old. Once he
had risen above that pleasant, charming level of beautiful
mediocrity ; once he had painted, not in common pigments,
but in colours mixed with tears and life-blood. At such a cost
even she was glad that no more great works should be pro-

comfoii-
se where
: to have
sed — the
nown to
her new
ntmenti
nmonds

18 to 80-

udio in

ised. It

to pur-

years
5y went
es gnlad.
old life

Helen
w—the
i differ-
V, with
US, but
ring of
availed
ster of

light-

1 uaaUf
s; but

>icture
single

as he
•f that
'G and
1 to a
'It too
ice he
utiful
lents,
% cost

pro-

AT HIS GATES.

463

daced. She was satisfied ; her craving for genius and fame
had once been fed, almost at the cost of their lives ; and now
she was content to descend to the gentler, lower work — ^the
work by which men earn their daily bread.

Ah ! but even then, even now, had it been — ^not Raphael,
perhaps, who was one of the Shaksperian men, without passion,
who do the work of gods as if they were the humanest, com-
monest of labourers — but such a fiery soul as that of Michel
Angelo whom this woman had mated ! But it was not so. She
could have understood the imperfection which is full of genius ;
what she was slow to understand was the perfection in which
no genius was. But she was calmed and changed by all she
had gone through, and had learned how dearly such excellence
may be bought, and that life is too feeble to bear so vast a
strain. Accordindy, fortified and consoled by the one gleam
of glory which had crowned his brows, Helen smiled upon her
painter, and took pleasure in his work, even when it ceased to
oe glorious. That was over ; but the dear common life — the
quiet, blessed routine of every day — that ordinary existence,
with love to lighten it, and work to burden it, and care and
pleasure intermingled, which, apart from the great bursts of
passion and sorrow and delight that come in from time to time,
18 the best blessing God gives to man — that had come back,
and was here in all its fulness, in perfect fellowship and con-
tent.

Norah lived at home with her parents for two years — the
reason of which was, not that they objected to poor Ned, but
that Ned was so sick at heart with all that he had suffered,
that he was not capable of settling down to such work as could
be procured for him in England. He was " Burton's son ; **
and though even the people who looked cold at him on account
of his parentage would soon have forgotten it, Ned himself
could not forget. There was even a moment of despair in
which he had declared that he would not share his disgrace
with the girl he loved, but would carry it with him to his grave
as soon as might be, and trouble no one any more. This state
of mind alarmed Norah dreadfully, but it did not alarm the
more experienced persons, who were aware that the mind at
one-and-twenty has a great many vagaries, and is not always
to be taken at his word. The despair came to a sudden end

464

AT HIS GATES.

* \

when Ned found himself suddenly appointed to a vice-consulship
in an Italian seaport, where his chief made him do all the work,
and where he received very little of the p;y. When this
serious moment came, and life had to be fairjy looked in the
facei Ned came to himself— he became a reasonable cnature.
Of course, after his despair, his firtit idea was to be iviarried in-
stantly ; but finally he consented to wait until something bet-
ter — something they could live on — could be piocured for him.
He bore his banishment valiantly, and so did Norah. And it
did him good ; he began to forget that he was " Burton's son ;"
the whole terrible story began to steal out of his mind with
that blessed facility which belongs to youth. His sky bright-
ened from those early clouds ; his mind, which was very
good, clear, capable intelligence, developed and strengthened ;
and finally, the exertions of his mother and grandfather, and
those of Drummond, who had some influence too among great
people who were lovers of art, procured him an appointment
at home. Ned would have nothing to do with business ; he
shuddered at the very name of it, and rejected the plans his
kind grandfather had formed for him with a repugnance which
was almost horror. Mr. Baldwin did not understand how the
boy t ould be so foolish ; but his mother understood, and sub-
<lued all opposition. Instead of taking his chance, therefore,
of commerce, with the hope of becoming in his turn a million-
aire, Ned made himself very happy in the public service on a
few hundreds.a year. If he lived long enough, and nobody
was promoted over him, and nothing happened to him or the
office, the chances were that after thirty years or so he might
find himself in enjoyment of a thousand a year. And all the
family said to each other, " That is very good, you know, for a.
voung man without much interest," and congratulated Ned as
if he had a thousand a year already which was thirty years off,
and subject to all the chances of good and evil fortune, of
economical ministers, and those public crises which demand the
sacrifice of junior clerks. But notwithstanding all these draw-
backs, Ned was very happy in his new appointn^ent, and his
marriage day drew nigh.

Mrs. Burton had lived for some time with her father and her
aunts at Olapham — ab long, indeed, as she could bear it ; then
she took a little house in town. She had given up half of her

AT HIS GATES.

465

riee-consulsbip
,0 all the work,
. When this
looked in the
able cruature.
be married in-
lomething bet-
)cured for him.
orah. And it
Burton's son ;"
lis mind with
[is sky bright-
lich was very
strengthened ;
andfather, and
10 among great
1 appointment
I business; he
the plans his
ugnance which
stand how the
tood, and sub-
nce, therefore,
turn a million-
ic service on a
I, and nobody
to him or the
or so he might
And all the
ou know, for a.
bulated Ned as
ihirty years off,
evil fortune, of
ich demand the
all these draw-
lUjient, and his

father and her
1 bear it; then
up half of her

settlement to her husband's creditors ; and whether she meas-
ured her sacrifice by her own knowledge of human nature, or
did it simply in the revulsion of her heart, after Ned's careless
reception of the larger offering which she was willing to have
made for him — certain it is that she got much more honour
from her public renunciation of the half than she would have
done had she let the whole go as she once intended. Her mag-
nanimity was in all the papers, and everybody commended the
modest, unexaggerated sacrifice. Ana she had still a veir

food income of Tier own, dt^rive 1 from the half she retained.
ler life in London, she thought ashappier than at Glapham.
Yet, perhaps, a doubt may be c 'ined on this .subject ; for
a life 80 limited was hard to her, iiowever luxurous it might be.
She did not care for luxuries ; but she did care tu watch the
secret movements of life, to penetrate the secrets of human
machinery, to note how men met the different emergencies of
their existence. She gathered a little society round her who
were as fond of this pursuit as herself ; but unless they could
have provided themselves with cases on which to operate, this
association could not do them much good, and it was dry fare
to be driven to scrutinizing each other. She thought she was
happier in her tiny house in Mayfair where she kept three
maids and a man ; and was extremely comfortable ; but I be-
lieve that in reality her time of highest enjoyment was also her
time of greatest suffering, when she was ruling her own little
world at Dura, and seeing her house tumble to pieces, and hold-
ing out against fate. She had had a chance for a moment of a
better life when her son came back, and touched with a care-
less, passing hand those chords of her heart which had never
vibrated before. But the touch was careless, momentary. Be-
fore that vibration had done more than thrill through her, the
thoughtless hand was lifted, and the opportunity over, and Mrs.
Burton, with her soft cynic smile, her perfect toleration for the
wants and weaknesses of humanity, her self-contained and self-
sufficing character, had returned to herself. She was proud,
very proud, in her way, and she was never betrayed into such
weakness again. Which was to blame, the mother or the son,
it would be hard to say ; and yet Ned could hardly be blamed for
failing to perceive an opportunity which he never guessed at
nor dreamed of. Some exceptionally sympathetic natures

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WEBSTER, M.Y. 14580

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;

466

AT HIS GATES.

might perhaps hy in8tmctthaye''felt the power that had been

gut into their hands ; but it is impossible to say that he was to
lame for not feeling it. Of all human creatures in this chilly
universe, Ned remained the one who most deeply interested his
mother. She made no opposition to his marriage; she even
made a distinct effort to like and to attract Norah, who on her
side did her best to be affectionate and filial to the woman
whose cold gentleness and softness of manner were so unlike
her own. It was an experiment which mutually could not be
said to have failed. They were always, as people say, on the
best of terms ; but so far as any real rapprochement went, it
cannot be said that it succeeded. Ned's life, however, such as
it was, was the one point in her family to which Mrs. Burton
could turn without that emotion of calmly-observant contempt
— if the sentiment could be described as anything so decided
or warm as contempt — with which she regarded human nature
in general. Her husband, when he reached America, at once
wrote home to claim a share in the income secured by her set-
tlement, which she accorded him without hesitation, moved by
a certain gentle, unexpressed disdain. He received his allow-
ance, as she termed it, or his share, as he called it, with unfail-
ing regularity, and made a hundred ventures with it in the new
field of speculation he had entered on with varying success.
He gained money and he lost it as he moved about from one
town to another ; and sometimes in his letters he would tell
her of his successes— successes which made her smile. It was
his nature, just as it was Mr. Baldwin's nature to take the chair
at meetings, to devote himself to the interests of the denom-
ination. The one tendency was no more elevated than the
other, when you came to look into them, the student of human
nature thought. Perhaps, on the whole, the commercial gamb-
ling on a small scale which now occupied the ruined merchant
was more honest than the other ; for Burton thought of noth-
ing but his own profit or gain, whereas Mr. Baldwin thought
he was doing God a service. But tLis was not a comparison
for a daughter, for a wife, to make.

And then Clara came back from her southern villa, a young
mother, with a husband who was no longer her lover, and of
whom she had become aware that he was growing old.. The
villa was situated on the shores of the loveliest sea,' in the

he
th<

AT HIS OATIS.

467

had been
he was to
ihis chilly
rested his
she even
ho on her
le woman
so unlike
Id not be
y, on the
t went, it
T, such as
s. Burton
; contempt
decided
lan nature
a, at once
)y her set-
moved by
his allow-
ith unfail-
rn the new
g success,
from one
vould tell
8. It was
e the chair
le denom-

than the
, of human
cial gamb-

merchant
t of noth-
n thought
omparison

t, a young
jr, and of
old.. The
sea,* in the

most beautiful climate in the world ; but Clara tired of it,
and found it dull, and with her dulness bored her husband so
that his life became a burden to him. He brought her home
at her urgent desire, with her baby, and they lived about in
London for a short time, now in an hotel, now in a lodging,
till it occurred to Clara that it was her duty to go and live
near " dear grandpapa," and delight his old age with the fourth
generation of his descendants. It suited her very well for a
time. " Dear grandpapa " was abject to her ; her aunts be-
came slaves to herself and her baby ; she became the centre of
all their thoughts and plans. Clary, who loved all pleasant
things, and to whom luxury and ease were life, made herself
at home at Clapham ; and Mr. Golden relieved her of his pres-
ence, paid visits here and there, lived at his club — which,
strangely enough, had not expelled him — and returned to all
the delights of his old bachelor life. What was to be the final
end of it it was hard to prophesy ; but already Clary had be-
gun to be bored at Clapham, and to make scenes with her hus-
band when he paid her his unfrequent visits. And this wais
the love-match so romantically made ! Clary, amid all her
jealousies and all her dulness, kept so firm a hold upon the
rich old people who could not live forever, and who could re-
store her at their death, if they so pleased, to much of her old
splendour, that her mother derived a certain painful amuse-
ment from this new manifestation of her life. Amusement, I
cannot deny — ^and painful, I hope ; seeing that the creature
who thus showed forth to her once again the poor motives and
self-seeking of humanity was her only daughter. But with
such evidences before her eyes of what human nature could be,
was it wonderful that Mrs. Burton should stand more and
more by herself, and harden day by day into a colder tolera-
tion, a more disdainful acquiescence in the evils she could not
fight against. What was the good of fighting against them ?
What could she do but render herself extremely unhappy, and
spoil the comfort of others without doing them any good 1 It
was not their fault ; they were acting according to their na-
ture. Thus Mrs. Burton's philosophy grew, and thus she spent
her diminished life.

It was in the midst of all these varied circumstances that
the joy-bells rang for Norah's wedding. Mrs. Burton did not

1 1

468

AT ^th GATES.

' t

Si; for even her philosophy was Hoi equal to the sight of
ura» where, according to the wish of both brid^ and bride-
ffroom, the bridal was ; but Oara, eager in the dulness of Olap-
ham for any chauige, was present in a toilet which filled her
aunts with compunction, yet admiration, and which ohe of them
had been wheedled into giving her. Clara took great state up-
on her as the matron, the omy one of the party who had at-
tained that glory, though she was the youngest), as she reminded
them^all. " But if I don't do better than Clary has done, I
hope i shall never marry at all," Katie Dalton cried with na-
tural indignation. The pretty procession went out of the
Gatehouse on foot to the church behind the trees, where Norah,
as she said, had been " brought up,"* and where Mr. Dalton
blessed the young pair, while his kind wife atood holding
Helen's hand and crying softly^ as it were, under her bi^th.
Helen herself did not cry ; and Norah's tears came amid such
an April shining of happiness, that no one could object to
them. The whole village came out to watch the pair whom
the whole village knew. A certain tenderness of respect, such
as the crowd seldom shows, was in the salutations Dura gave
to the son of the ruined man who had so long reigned among
them. No one could remember, not the most tenacious rural
memory, an unkind act of Ned's ; and the people were so sorry
for him, that their pleasure in his joy was half pathetic. " Poor
lad ! " they said ; " poor fellow ! And it was none of his
fault." And the friendliness that brought him back to hold
his high festival and morning joy of youth among them touched
the kindly folks, and went to their hearts. Stephen Haldane sat
at his window, and watched the bride come and go. Tears came
into his eyes, and a pathetic mixture of gladness and sorrow
to his heart. He watched the procession go out, and in his
' loneliness folded his hands and prayed for them whUe they were
in church. It was summer once more, and the blossomed limes
were Ml of bees, and all the air sweet with scent and sound.
While all the goodly company walked together to the kirk,
Stephen, who could not go with them, sat there in the sunshine
with his folded hands. What thoughts were in his mind !
What broken lights of God's meaning and ways gleamed about
him ! What strange clouds passed over him through 'the sun-
shine — recollections of his own life, hopes for theirs ! And when

^ i

AT HIS GATES.

469

ight of
I bride-
of OUp-
led her
of them
itate np-
had at-
emmded
done, I
with na-
of the
■eNorah,
Dalton
holding
r bi^th.
mid such
>bject to
air whom
)ect, such
Wa gave
ed among
ious rural
e so sorry
ic. "Poor
ine of his
k to hold
m touched
aldane sat
rears came
ind sorrow
md in his
I they were
»mea limes
a.nd sound.
the kirk,
le sunshine
his mind !
imed about
h 'the sun-
And when

the bride went away from the door, away into the world with
her husband — in that all-effectual separation from her father's
house which may be but for a few days, but which is more or
less for ever, Stephen once more looked out upon them from
his window. And by his side stood Helen, escaped there to
command herself and console him. The father leaned out of
the window, waving his hand ; but the mother stood behind
with her hand upon the arm of the invalid's chair. When Robert
turned round, it was with wonder that he perceived in Stephen's
eyes a deeper feeling, a more penetrating emotion, than he him-
self felt, or had any thought of. He held oat his hand to his
friend and he put his arm round his wife.

" Well, Helen," he said, with his cheery voice. ** She is
gone as you went from your mother ; and there are two of us
still, whatever life may have in store."

" If there had not been t«^o of us," the mother cried, with
momentary passion, '' I think I should have died !"

Stephen Haldane took her hand in his, in sign of his sym-
pathy. He held it tightly, swaying for a moment in his chair.
And he said nothing, for there was no one whose ear was his,
to whom his words were precious. But in his heart he mur-
mured, God hearing him, " There is but one of me; and I never
die."