Chapter VIII: Henry’s letter was as follows

“London, July 17.

“You will be surprised, after the declarations I once made, to hear
of my return to England. But circumstances change, and changes make
those vows rash which once were spoken in honesty. When I heard of
my father’s unsettled mind, my dear mother’s death, and my sister’s
marriage, I knew that my place was in England, and I returned to
take such of my family as still remained to me under my care.

“It was not till I arrived that I knew who, up to this time, had
been their protector.

“I will not attempt to thank you for what you have done. Your own
generous nature prompted you, and that generous nature is its own
sufficient reward.

“The time is come, however, when it is both my wish and my duty to
release you from cares which ought not to be yours. I have taken a
house near Kensington, and there, for the present, I hope to make a
home for myself and the children. Eventually other arrangements may
be necessary. I have accepted an agency about fifty miles from
London, and possibly may, in the end, make my home there. At
present I do not know what will be required of me.

“Will you be so good as to give the enclosed to Simon. It contains
my directions regarding the journey. You will, perhaps, read it
yourself, and assist him with your advice.

“The day I have named for the departure of the children is still a
week distant. I could not make a comfortable arrangement for their
reception sooner. I do not apologise for this delay. I know you too
well to have any hesitation in asking it. It is but adding a mite
to the load of obligation which would oppress me, were it not that
it has pleased God to make you what you are. I remember how you
once said that we ought all to be followers of Him who went about
doing good. You may have forgotten the words you said, but, though
in my life they have borne no fruit, they have haunted my memory;
and it is not the first time I have felt they were spoken from the
promptings of your own nature. May God bless you for your care of
the worse than fatherless!

“HENRY DEVEREUX.”

A tear dropped from Henry’s eye as he finished his letter--a sudden startling one. It startled him, and he dashed it off--as once before in writing to Nora had happened--with disdain.

The tear was the expression of bitter but restrained feelings within, a sore heart striving to subdue its soreness; a gratitude felt, yet making the heart heavy with its weight; a struggle with a slumbering passion--a passion which _was_ worship, but which was _not_ love.

In feelings of youthful love, even under adverse circumstances, there is always some sweetness. But there was no sweetness here. It was no youthful love that he felt. She filled the inner recesses of his heart and brain; she caused a storm in his mind. But he had no hopes, nor wishes to have hopes. Therefore it could not be love.

It was not love he felt, and this Nora could feel as she read. When she saw his writing she took the letter away, and read it in solitude. She had been momentarily expecting to hear from him; and though the letter was not long delayed, being in circumstances which does quickly feel despair, she had begun to despair.

She opened it with joyful alacrity; but its grave, even tenor fell like a fog upon her fancy. At the sudden softening at the close she suddenly melted, and a sudden tear fell, even as Henry’s had done; but this was the only alleviating sensation, the only moment that had any sweetness in it. And even that soft close, even the remembrance he recalled of a former day, seemed to speak of the pains of gratitude. She could see and feel the sore heart labouring under the weight of her benefits, and words that might have been sweet, read in this light, became bitter.

In the course of the day she replied to him; and she felt none of the difficulties Henry had felt. Deep down in her soul secrets, which she herself rarely faced, lay; but on the surface she could still speak of him and to him with the freedom of the days before that painful secret had been revealed.

She called him “my dear cousin,” and said how glad she was to hear of his return, glad even though it brought a blow and disappointment with it, in that it deprived her of the society of the children. Of the bitter blow it was to have the children thus formally removed she said nothing, but added a few kind words regarding them; how greatly interested she should be in their future welfare, and how she hoped their visit might be repeated. There was then a few answers to the directions Henry had given for the journey, and she closed with a simple expression of her thanks for his kind words and thoughts about herself.

She felt no difficulty in writing, and in her simple, easy style Henry certainly could read nothing, could suspect nothing of the feelings that lay beneath it.

All was made ready for the departure of the two Devereux. They went with regret. Henry they had loved when he was with them, but of their London home they had no fond recollections. And they were parted with with regret. Although with few charms of body and mind, they had the charm of being easily pleased; of softening, and improving under care and culture. Miss Willis had devoted herself to them. Mrs. Ratcliffe had loved them for Henry’s sake--that Henry to whom she had been disloyal, but whom, even during her disloyalty, she had regretted and loved.

But there was one who cried herself ill when the day of departure came, and this was Sophy Brook. She had shewn no special love for the children during their stay, but when they were thus suddenly removed she cried till she had a fit of hysterics.

Sophy had caught cold, as it was said, on that June afternoon when Stephen Fanshawe carried her home. She had a severe attack of bronchitis, and Dr. Lewis, a famous physician at the Spa, was again summoned to see her.

He brought her well through the attack, but she did not afterwards improve as he expected.

“I cannot quite understand it,” he said one day to Nora, after examining her thoroughly; “there is no actual disease about the lungs. She is delicate and fragile, but there is nothing to threaten life, if proper care is taken. Were she a few years older,” he added, laughing, “I should ask if there was anything wrong here,” lightly touching his heart. “She has every symptom of a pining, hopeless attachment. But, of course, with her it is impossible.”

Nora repeated the words smilingly to Mrs. Ratcliffe. Mrs. Ratcliffe looked serious on the subject.

“That’s queer,” she observed. “We used to say, her mother and me, that Sophy had lost her heart to Mr. Henry Devereux. But we spoke jokingly, you know,” she added quickly, as Nora blushed; which she took as a rebuke for her speech. “He had such a way with him--turning her head, silly little thing!”

“Of course it is only a joke,” Nora said; but nevertheless her interest in Sophy increased.

When the news of his arrival came, she had told Sophy of it herself, and was amused by the pink glow that stole into her cheek.

“Do you think he will come down here?” Sophy had asked.

“I don’t know about that. Do you want to see him, Sophy?” she added lightly, for at the thought of Sophy’s supposed attachment her own took courage.

The pink glow changed to a deep crimson, and Sophy turned away her eyes while she said petulantly,

“I never said so; why should I?” And Nora, though amused and interested, said no more.

When, however, the news was broken that Simon and Annabella were to go, and that no visit from Henry would take place, Sophy cried; and when the children took leave of her, she cried herself into a fit of hysterics.

“It’s not for _them_,” Mrs. Ratcliffe said mysteriously, tossing her chin, and making wondering eyes at Nora.

Nora smiled, but wondered too, and devoted herself to cheer the pining invalid.