AT HIS GATES.
A Novel.
BY MRS OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF 'CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,' ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1872.
[All rights reserved]
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
AT HIS GATES.
CHAPTER I.
Helen had still another incident before her, however, ere she left StMary's Road. It was late in the afternoon when she went back. To go backat all, to enter the dismantled place, and have that new dreary picturethrust into her mind instead of the old image of home, was painfulenough, and Norah's cheeks were pale, and even to Helen the air and themovement conveyed a certain relief. They went into the quieter part ofthe park and walked for an hour or two saying little. Now and then poorNorah would be beguiled into a little monologue, to which her motherlent a half attention—but that was all. It was easier to be in motionthan to keep still, and it was less miserable to look at the trees, theturf, the blue sky, than at the walls of a room which was full ofassociations of happiness. They did not get home until the carriageswere beginning to roll into the park for the final round before dinner.And when they reached their own house, there stood a smart cabrioletbefore it, the horse held by a little tiger. Within the gate twogentlemen met them coming down the steps. One of them was a youth ofeighteen or nineteen, who looked at Helen with a wondering awe-strickenglance. The other was—Mr Golden. Norah had closed the garden doorheedlessly after her. They were thus shut in, the four togetherconfronting each other, unable to escape. Helen could not believe hereyes. Her heart began to beat, her pale cheeks to flush, a kind of mistof excitement came before her vision. Mr Golden, too, was not without acertain perturbation. He had not expected to see any one. He took offhis hat, and cleared his voice, and made an effort to seem at his ease.
'I had just called,' he said, 'to express—to inquire—I did not knowthings had been so far advanced. I would not intrude—for the world.'
'Oh!' cried Helen, facing him, standing between him and the door, 'howdare you come here?'
'Dare, Mrs Drummond? I—I don't understand——'
'You do understand,' she said, 'better—far better than any one elsedoes. And how dare you come to look at your handiwork? A man may be whatyou are, and yet have a little shame. Oh, you robber of the dead! if Ihad been anything but a woman, you would not have ventured to look me inthe face.'
He did not venture to look her in the face then; he looked at hiscompanion instead, opening his eyes, and nodding his head slightly, asif to imply that she was crazed. 'It is only a woman who can insult aman with impunity,' he said, 'but I hope I am able to make allowance foryour excited feelings. It is natural for a lady to blame some one, Isuppose. Rivers, let us go.'
'Not till I have spoken,' she cried in her excitement. 'This is but aboy, and he ought to know whom he is with. Oh, how is it that I cannotstrike you down and trample upon you? If I were to call that policemanhe would not take you, I suppose. You liar and thief! don't dare toanswer me. What, at my own door; at the door of the man whose good nameyou have stolen, whom you have slandered in his grave—oh my God! whohas not even a grave because you drove him mad!—' she cried, her eyesblazing, her cheeks glowing, all the silent beauty of her face growingsplendi