AT HIS GATES.
A Novel.
BY MRS OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF 'CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,' ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1872.
[All rights reserved]
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
AT HIS GATES.
CHAPTER I.
The drawing-room within was very different from the wild conflict oflight and darkness outside. There was music going on at one end, somepeople were reading, some talking. There were flirtations in hand, andgrave discussions. In short, the evening was being spent as people areapt to spend the evening when there is nothing particular going on.There had been a good deal of private yawning and inspection of watchesthroughout the evening, and some of the party had already gone to bed,or rather to their rooms, where they could indulge in the happiness offancying themselves somewhere else—an amusement which is very popularand general in a country house.
But seated in an easy-chair by the fire was a tall man, carefullydressed, with diamond studs in his shirt, and a toilette which, thoughsubdued in tone as a gentleman's evening dress must be, was yet tooelaborate for the occasion. The fact that this new guest was a strangerto 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 closeto them listening with a look of eager interest to all they said. Thesethree made a little detached group by one side of the fire. At the othercorner sat Mrs Burton, with her little feet on a footstool, as near aspossible to the fender. She had just said good-night to the dignifiedmembers of the party, the people who had to be considered; the otherswho remained were mere young people, about whose proceedings she did notconcern herself. She was taking no part in the talk at the other side ofthe fire. She sat and warmed her little toes and pondered; her vividlittle mind all astir and working, but uninfluenced by, and somewhatcontemptuous of, what was going on around; and her chilly little personbasking in the ruddy warmth of the fire.
Ned came up and stood by her when he came in. No one took any notice ofhim, the few persons who remained in the room having other affairs inhand. Ned was fond of his mother, though she had never shown anyfondness for him. She had done all for him which mere intellect coulddo. She had been very just to the boy all his life; when he got intoscrapes, as boys will, she had not backed him up emotionally, it istrue, but she had taken all the circumstances into account, and had notjudged him harshly. She had been tolerant when his father was harsh. Shehad never lost her temper. He had always felt that he could appeal toher sense of justice—to her calm and impartial reason. This is not muchlike the confidence with which a boy generally throws himself upon hismother's sympathy, yet it was a great deal in Ned's case. Andaccordingly he loved his mother. Mrs Burton, too, loved him perhaps morethan she loved any one. She was doing her best to break his heart; butthat is not at all uncommon even when parents and children adore eachother. And then Ned was not aware that his mother had any shareintentionally 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 Burton, lifting hereyes and turning them calmly upon the person she named. There was nofeeling in them of one kind or another