Chapter IX

It is a long while since there has been any news of Mr. Devereux; but re-acquaintance with him must now be made. With the exception that his children had increased in number, and advanced in years, there was no great change in his circumstances, and there was no great change in him. Mr. Smythe’s legacy, however disappointing, had been an addition to his income, and his income from other sources had also a little increased; but to set against this, there was the increase in his family, so that upon the whole he was only where he was. The desire of money was still the one desire of his heart; the want of money still a need that was felt. He still frittered away any little sums he had in small speculations, too trilling to pay much, too carefully watched to lead to great losses. They occupied his thoughts and his time, and set his heart unceasingly on money; but they left him much where he was.

During all the years of Nora’s youth, he had daily expected to hear of her death. Over and over again he had framed to himself the letter containing the announcement of that event. It was the occupation of dreamy hours to write it, and repeat it to himself. He rarely entered his house without glancing at a certain table, on which letters were placed, to see if it was come; but as we know, it never came.

This expectation prevented his making reductions, and therefore it was that, though far from extravagant in his tastes, he was in want of money for very necessary things. At the moment at which we resume our acquaintance, the want of money was indeed a very great want in the house. Henry Devereux was between eighteen and nineteen. He wished to go to Oxford; he had been always told that he should go to Oxford. The time was now come, and it was found impossible; there was no money to do it.

The children of Mr. Devereux had been brought up vaguely. These children were Letitia and Henry, now grown up, and some smaller ones; and all had been, and were being brought up in a vague, desultory way. Sometimes they had had teachers of various kinds, daily or stationary, and pains were bestowed upon them; again, for months together, they were let alone. Some of their teachers, both daily and stationary, were good, instilled good principles, and taught them well. Some were very much the reverse. It was a kind of scramble. Education was tossed among the children at intervals, and a very alert one might have picked up a good deal. Education, however, not being in general so desirable as halfpence, the most alert on common occasions was not alert in this scramble. The most alert of all the family, the eldest son Henry, had certainly caught the least. He had once been to a master whom he liked, and who had done him some good; for the rest his education had been a scramble indeed. Nevertheless, he had set his heart on going to Oxford.

Henry Devereux and his father were good friends. This was remarkable, for better fathers than Mr. Devereux might have felt jealousy of the son whose name was put in his place. But the enormous injury done to father and son alike by the birth of Nora covered all petty jealousies. No trifling legacy to Henry could make amends for the loss of both their rights. To do Mr. Devereux justice, also, he had his natural affections. He was a faithful, though not an adoring husband to Letitia Allen; and he was a faithful, though not agreeable father to his children.

Of all his children, Henry was his favourite; and yet Henry was the only one who had no likeness, nor the shadow of a shade of a likeness, to himself. Letitia had grown up a sharp, shrewd girl, with good features, and a hard face--not exactly like her father’s, but very like him. The younger children also exhibited mental and bodily features which, with a thrill of rapture, Mrs. Devereux pronounced to be like papa. But Henry was formed in a different mould. He was a wild, careless, impetuous, passionate, and good-tempered boy. He rarely thought; he never calculated, never compared, or put two and two together; he closed his eyes to disagreeables, and set his heart violently on the pleasures of life. He had many amiable and even excellent qualities; and his mother, being naturally amiable and well-principled, had let fall, without the least consciousness of doing so, many drops of wisdom and goodness among her children, and these Henry had often picked up. But his education had been, as has been said, a scramble, and he had picked up also a good deal that was neither amiable nor wise.

From early years Henry had heard much about his rights, and had formed his own opinion, therefore, as to what his future life should be. It was very well to talk of a profession, and to agree to being a lawyer, when he was told that that would be the best choice; but his intention was to enjoy himself without any profession whatever. His rights would probably come some day, and if they did not, he knew he had a legacy. He rarely thought, was perfectly careless as to the value of money, knew not whether the Queen had a thousand or a million a year, but wished to enjoy himself, and be let alone.

Of the probable death of his cousin, the one person who stood between him and his rights, he sometimes thought. If people were very disagreeable, and pressed upon him hard truths about the future--truths which a latent good sense forced him to acknowledge, then he re-assured himself by saying to himself,

“They may talk, but it’s all nonsense; there’s only a life between me and millions, and of course it will die.”

But this quieting assurance of a death was without the least grain of malice in it. The thought of that death gave him ease from disagreeable reflections, and he took the ease when he required it, without once reasoning on what it was that soothed him.

Nevertheless, if there was a shade of bitterness in Henry’s nature, it was in his feelings towards this cousin. He had been told to hate her in his early youth, and that instruction had been among the things picked up and cherished. With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, he had then said he hated her, and the sensation was carried on, and improved upon from year to year.

Not that he thought much about her--not that he would have done her any harm, or would have refused to do her any good, had such a possibility been actually in his power. The hate was a vague sensation, but such as it was it was cherished. It was a pleasurable excitement to hear his father abuse her; it was pleasurable to feel that every grievance in the family was caused by her. It had certainly been a pleasure to hear, when once it had reached their ears, that she was a purse-proud little thing. She was the enemy; he had been told to hate her, and he did.

“I wish your gowns were prettier,” he said one day to his sister; it was after she was grown up, and when a boy’s eyes are beginning to like to see a young lady well-dressed.

Letitia had not good taste. If there was an ugly shade of a pretty colour to be seen, she always chose it; but she was not conscious of her deficiency, and she answered dryly and peevishly,

“I can’t help my gowns. I am not Miss Smythe. _She_ wears beautiful silks, of course, but _I_ can’t.”

It was thus; it was by allusions such as this that Nora’s name was constantly brought before Henry’s eyes. She was associated with all that was disagreeable. He thought of her as a vague being, who, having first deprived him of his rights, now lived in luxury, while those whom she had injured, suffered endless disappointments, privations, and wrongs.

At the present moment there was a worse grievance, of which, as usual, she was the cause. Henry had set his heart on going to Oxford. This desire was from no worthy motive. Among his youthful follies was a great desire to be grand and fine; to be, in familiar language, “a swell.” As he had not been to a public school, he thought a sojourn at Oxford, where his agreeable qualities might make him popular, was the best way to achieve this object; and it was to secure that object that he gave his careless acquiescence to the prospect of being a lawyer.

It has been said that among Henry’s masters was one who had once done him good. Of him more will be heard. He was a private tutor, and with him Henry had remained for upwards of two years. It was while with him that he had had for a companion a youth whose destiny it was to be great without effort. He was a well-disposed boy, but proud of his destiny, and somewhat given to boasting. Too well-bred to boast of present rank, he chose rather to boast of his ancestors; to bring forward and comment on a fine Norman name, which showed, he said, that his forefathers had been powerful barons, perhaps princes, in the days of William the Conqueror.

Henry was a youth of ambitious soul. He was not desirous of _doing_ any great things, but he was ambitious of grandeur. The confined sphere in which his father and mother lived was small and dull and ugly in his eyes. When the Norman youth boasted he felt humbled, and cast about his eyes in search of comfort. It was at this time that he discovered that he, too, had an historic name; that _he_ might talk of ancestors; and, though he was not aware of there being any connection with the families, might observe that the head of his family was the first Viscount in England. The discovery was an ineffable consolation to him. When he told it to his friend, and added to it the story of his rights, he saw that the respect of the friend increased. More than ever it was impressed upon his mind that he was born to grandeur, and that it was his duty to take his proper place in the world.

After leaving this private tutor, his education flagged for a time. There was a want of money in the house, and Henry was left to his own devices. He lived at home by way of keeping up his studies, but he was chiefly occupied in paying visits. One young companion introduced him to another young companion, and an idle, handsome, good-tempered boy, who was up to anything, seemed to lack no friends; his company was always welcome.

Mr. Devereux was not given to think of the moral or intellectual good of his children. This being a time when money was scarce, Henry’s frequent absences from home were agreeable to him, and for two or three years, from fifteen to eighteen, he was allowed to idle as he pleased.

But though Henry idled and got into a good deal of mischief, he did not forget his object. He was always thinking of college; and when the time came, and his father told him that his going was impossible, he was not only disappointed--he was vexed and angry. The blame, of course, was laid on Nora; but as she was a vague, absent being, the vexation was visited on those nearer to him. For the first time in his life Henry was cross--out of temper, not for a moment, but for days and weeks together. He thought himself ill-used. The disappointment caused him to think a little, and he hated thought. He could not help looking on and saying once or twice, if he did not have his rights, what should he do in life? And the mere act of thought disturbed him.

It was about this time that Mr. Devereux, one morning as he sat at breakfast, exclaimed,

“So that woman has married again!”

“What woman?” said Mrs. Devereux, who was ever dull.

“That woman,” he repeated, with his usual politeness.

“Oh, papa!” cried Letitia, “has Miss Smythe really married? Married, and at sixteen! What a shame!”

“Not Miss Smythe, but the mother.”

“What, that old woman!” said Letitia.

“Not old,” observed Mrs. Devereux with dignity, for she knew her to be several years younger than herself.

“You know what I mean, mamma; and whom has she married?”

Mr. Devereux read the paragraph:--

“At Brighton, Anne Smythe, widow of the late Joshua Smythe, Esq., to Monsieur Jules d’Alberg, of Geneva.”

“Of Geneva!” observed Letitia, “Oh! then they don’t mean to settle in England. I am glad of that. I should have hated to have them here.”

“I don’t know about that, Letitia,” said Mrs. Devereux in her drawling voice. “I think I am sorry. I am afraid it puts an end to my plan.”

“Your plan, mamma! What is your plan?”

“Why, you see, as Henry is the person who will in the end suffer the most by the dreadful will, it struck me the other day that the best of all things that could happen would be for Henry to marry her; and I really don’t see why it should not happen.”

Up to this point Henry had not paid any attention to the conversation. He possibly was listening, but he paid no attention. Usually he was what is called the life and soul of the party, the only one who had much life or much soul; but since his displeasure, he had retired behind a penny newspaper, which he took in himself for the very purpose of showing his displeasure.

After Mrs. Devereux spoke, both gentlemen moved--Mr. Devereux slightly, taking one quick, sidelong glance at his son. Mr. Simon Devereux had a mean soul. He could hate with intense and venomous hate, and yet profit by the person hated, and be willing to do so.

Henry was otherwise formed. His hate was not of a venomous kind; it might not be Christian (it was not very un-Christian), nevertheless, it was a true feeling; it was good sound hate, so far as it went. His cheek grew crimson at his mother’s words, and with flashing eyes he cried--

“Don’t dare to plan about me, mother, for I won’t suffer it. If every limb of her body was made of pure gold of Ophir, I would rather die than touch her!”

The voice was so intensely in earnest, that there was a pause. Mr. Devereux buried himself in his newspaper, and though he had faintly expected a different answer, murmured under his voice, “Right.”

Mrs. Devereux, as usual, stared. She knew they all hated, and she hated too, but she was always surprised when any reality appeared in the hate. It was a feeling that had grown up in her family, and which she dutifully encouraged, to please her husband, but she never took in what it all meant. Letitia stared also.

“What nonsense you talk, Henry!” she said, carelessly. “I am sure I hate her as much as you do, and would do her any harm I could; but I would marry her to-morrow, if I was a man, both for the money’s sake, and for the pleasure of vexing her.”

Henry deigned no answer, and as Letitia rarely thought it worth while to talk only to her mother, the conversation dropped.

A few mornings afterwards, however, it was resumed. Henry’s penny newspaper contained sometimes news of a description not admitted to the newspaper of Mr. Devereux, and he one day found in it a short account of the marriage that had lately taken place at Brighton. There was nothing of interest to record, but for lack of subjects of greater moment, about twenty lines were devoted to Mrs. Smythe. There was some statement and some mis-statement of facts. The great wealth of the bride was mentioned, and the fact that, nevertheless, the bridegroom intended to resume his duties. The weak nerves of the lady were said to be the cause of the quiet marriage, but it was graced by the presence of her beautiful and accomplished daughter, who had just attained her twenty-first year, and entered into possession of enormous wealth. It was then added that, after a short honeymoon, the whole party intended to return to their beautiful residence on the Lake of Geneva.

Love or hate both excite interest, and though Henry had, as he supposed, a scorn for everything that could be called gossip, he read this paragraph with interest; and when he had read it to himself, he was sufficiently amiable to pass it over to his mother, to whom he knew the very smallest article of gossip to be acceptable. She read it to herself with quiet delight, and then began drawling it out to Letitia, who, before it was half done, impatiently snatched the paper from her hand.

There were often petty disputes between Letitia and her mother, owing to Letitia’s superior sharpness and desire to tyrannize. Mr. Devereux usually sided with his daughter, but Henry always with his mother, and that was perhaps the reason why he was inclined to talk on this day.

“What was the use of reading that, mamma,” said Letitia. “There is nothing whatever in it.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It tells me some things that I did not know before. I certainly did not know that Miss Smythe was so handsome.”

“Oh! mamma, how silly! Newspapers say ‘beautiful and accomplished’ to anybody, however hideous.”

“Well, but, my dear, she might be handsome. Mrs. Ratcliffe used to tell me that her mother was very pretty, and she might, you know, take after her instead of her poor father.”

“Was her father very ugly?” asked Henry.

He knew perfectly what the answer would be, but to hear anything against the Smythes was a pleasure to him that never was satiated.

“Ugly! Oh! my dear Henry, if you could have seen him, poor man. It was as if he had two noses one after the other. If his daughter,” she added, thoughtfully, “has a nose at all like his, it is impossible she can be handsome.”

“And she has, you may depend upon it.”

“Poor girl! Then I really do pity her.”

“I don’t,” said Henry, “there is no room for pity. Nose or no nose, she has done too well for herself for that.”

“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Devereux, forgetting the hate, as was not unusual, “that perhaps it is almost a pity that we are so prejudiced against her. She may not be as bad as we think. I sometimes wish we could have a good account of her.”

“Don’t talk trash,” said her husband, shortly. “There is no good account to be heard.”

“And I,” said Henry, sticking to his mother, “should like to hear an account of her, too. But what I should be glad to hear is, that she is just what I think she is.”

“You shall hear about her if you please,” observed Mr. Devereux. “I have an acquaintance at Brighton who knows all that goes on. I dare say this marriage will not have escaped him. I will write and inquire.”

It was not to please Henry, however, that Mr. Devereux wrote. He was anxious himself to hear further particulars. He was especially anxious to know whether she looked sickly, and likely to do her duty and die.

Francis Horner, in his diary, observes that asking questions is an art, and one in which he is deficient. At a later date in the same diary he remarks that he was improved in the art of asking questions. These questions were of course with a view to eliciting information; but there is another sense in which there is an art in questioning. When we wish for a particular answer to be given, the enquiry has to be framed with art and nicety. The answer must, in fact, be contained in the question.

It was on this principle that Mr. Devereux framed his inquiries to his Brighton acquaintance. He wished to know that Nora was all he had depicted her to be, and he gave his cue. He said that he had great fears, from various things he had heard, that she was purse-proud, miserly, and heartless. He should be glad to know if any circumstances of her conduct at Brighton agreed with this character, as, once informed of her real character, he should be better able to deal with her. After answering a good many other inquiries contained in the letter, the gentleman, in his reply, wrote thus:

“It is curious that the words you apply to Miss Smythe should be precisely those which I had applied to her character from the circumstances which reached my ears. I am afraid all I have to say tallies with your pre-conceived opinion. You must know that she took lodgings in the same street in which I live, and her comings and goings were under my eye. That she is miserly may be easily gathered from many facts of her conduct. In the first place, rich as she is, she chose to go into lodgings--very decent ones, but not at all suitable to the wealth she is said to possess. While there she lived in the smallest possible way, and even at the time of the marriage showed no liberality. The mistress of the house is an acquaintance of my wife’s, and from her we heard these and other particulars. She, good woman, was anxious for a little of the pomp of matrimony, and so, also, she says, was the mother, Mrs. Smythe. But the young lady did not choose to have it so. The marriage was not only private, but shabby. The dresses were decent, but no more. There was not an attempt to do honour to her mother. And yet so fond of power is Miss Smythe, that she insisted on having every bill brought to herself. She would be all in all--her mother nothing.

“I have often met them in the street. The mother is young-looking, and looks kind and gentle. Miss Smythe is less easy to describe. I understand she is only sixteen, but she looks several years older. She is what some would call a fine girl, but I did not admire her. Her hair and eyes are good, but her features are large and cold. She does not exactly look unhealthy, but neither does she look young and blooming. I myself admire amiable-looking women, and if I had to choose I would choose the mother before the daughter.

“I omitted to tell you that I heard in confidence from a friend who drew up Monsieur d’Alberg’s settlements, a trait which I think very bad. Mrs. Smythe, it appears, was left with a jointure of only £1,000 a year--a very small sum, considering the property her husband possessed. As she may very possibly have a new family, she was exceedingly anxious to have something to settle on them, something beyond a life interest, and implored her daughter to make such a provision; but Miss Smythe declined in the most determined manner. Now, considering that she has but one parent, but one near relation, I own I think her conduct unjustifiable.”

“It is vile! it is loathsome!” cried Henry, interrupting with violence. “Let me hear no more!--never hear her name again! I am ashamed to be, however distantly, connected with such a wretch!”

The whole party looked surprised. Again the reality of Henry’s vehemence astonished. Mr. Devereux folded up his letter and put it in his pocket, saying, “It was only what I expected. A good account would have surprised me much more.”

“I am afraid she must have got her father’s nose,” observed Mrs. Devereux. “He says her features are large, you see.”

“That does not follow,” was Letitia’s observation. “I am very much afraid she is handsome.”

“It matters very little what she is,” Henry said. “With a mind like hers, she must be hateful, even had she the features of Venus!”

“You are so ridiculous,” said his sister; then added, laughing, “if you talk so violently, you will end by falling in love with her.”

Henry got up, and banged the door as he went out; Letitia laughed; Mrs. Devereux stared as usual; Mr. Devereux looked up, and then looked down again. Passion surprised him also; his hate was calm and cold; he could hardly understand his son’s warmth on the subject.