About the Book
CHAPTER I. Helen had still another incident before her, however, ere she left St Mary's Road. It was late in the afternoon 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 image 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. Now and then poor Norah would be beguiled into a little monologue, to which her mother lent a half attention-but that was 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 happiness. 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 together confronting 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 inquire-I did not know things had been 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?' 'Dare, Mrs Drummond? I-I don't understand--' 'You do understand, ' she said, 'better-far better than any one else does. And how dare you come to look at your handiwork? A man may be what you are, and yet have a little shame. Oh, you robber of the dead! if I had been anything but a woman, you would not have ventured to look me in the face.' He did not venture to look her in the face then; he looked at his companion instead, opening his eyes, and nodding his 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. Rivers, let us go.' 'Not till I have spoken, ' she cried in her excitement. '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? 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 you have stolen, whom you have slandered in his grave-oh my God! who has not even a grave because you drove him mad!-' she cried, her eyes blazing, her cheeks glowing, all the silent beauty of her face growing splendid in her passion....
About the Author: Margaret Oliphant Wilson Oliphant, née Margaret Oliphant Wilson le 4 avril 1828 à Wallyford près de Musselburgh dans l'East Lothian et morte le 25 juin 1897 à Wimbledon, est une romancière et historienne écossaise. Elle épouse en 1852 son cousin Frank Wilson Oliphant, dont elle a six enfants. Toute sa vie, elle fait preuve d'une ténacité devant l'adversité remarquable dans le contexte de l'époque à la mort de son mari, elle assure par son talent d'écrivain, la sécurité et l'éducation de ses enfants (elle enverra d'abord ses deux fils à Eton, puis à Oxford). Elle soutient ensuite financièrement et moralement ses deux frères Willie et Frank, et assure l'éducation de trois enfants de ce dernier. Mais ses efforts sont contrecarrés par la maladie et la mort aucun de ses enfants ne lui survivra et, des enfants de Frank qu'elle a pris en charge, seule Janet vivra plus longtemps qu'elle. Dans les années 1880 elle guide les débuts en littérature de la romancière irlandaise Emily Lawless. Fille de Francis W. Wilson (1788-1858) et de Margaret Oliphant (1789-1854), elle passe son enfance à Lasswade, près de Dalkeith, à Glasgow et Liverpool et s'adonne dès son plus jeune âge aux expérimentations littéraires. En 1849, elle publie son premier roman Passages in the Life of Mrs Margaret Maitland (Épisodes de la vie de Mme Margaret Maitland) où il est question du mouvement de l'église libre d'Écosse dont ses parents sont des sympathisants. Ce premier roman connait un certain succès. Il est suivi en 1851 par Caleb Field et la même année, Margaret rencontre le major William Blackwood à Édimbourg, qui l'invite à participer à la rédaction du Blackwood's Magazine, une revue littéraire célèbre de l'époque. Cette collaboration débutée de façon précoce durera toute sa vie. Le nombre de ses contributions sera considérable puisqu'elle signera dans cette revue plus de cent articles, parmi lesquels une critique du personnage d'Arthur Dimmesdale dans The Scarlet Letter de Nathaniel Hawthorne.
