A Woman Perfected

CHAPTER XIV

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

Mr. Nash strolled leisurely off, lighting another cigar as he went. Elaine could have done nothing to stop him, had her entire future depended on her making the effort. Indeed she only dimly realized that he was going; something seemed to be pressing on her brain, and numbing it; until all at once the pressure lightened, and, with a start, she perceived that he had gone. For a second or two she stood staring about her on all sides, as if, just roused out of sleep, she was wondering where she was. When she understood that he had left her, and had passed out of sight, and that she was alone, oblivious of her smart hat and pretty frock, she sank down on to the grass, just where she was, and hid her face in her hands.

She stayed like that some time; she herself did not know how long; then, uncovering her face, again she looked about her; and, possibly recognizing that nothing was to be gained by behaving like that, she scrambled to her feet, shaking herself, touching herself here and there, where she thought that her costume might stand in need of a touch, then she started to return to the house.

She had just got on to the path which wound among the trees when she encountered the person she would have most wished to avoid-the butler, Morgan. Elaine had never before seen him attired in anything but what might be described as his official garments; such was her mental confusion that, at her first sight, in his well-cut, neat grey suit, she hardly knew him; it had to be admitted that in it he looked more like a gentleman is supposed to look than Mr. Nash had done. He carried himself with less swagger than Herbert Nash; what was still more marked, he uncovered when he saw Miss Harding, showing all those signs of outward respect which a gentleman is supposed to show in the presence of a lady, but which Mr. Nash had entirely ignored; yet Miss Harding shrank back from Mr. Morgan as if he had been some noxious thing. Nothing could have been more deferential than the air with which he addressed her.

"With your permission, Miss Harding, I should like to speak to you."

She looked as if she was afraid that he would whip her.

"Not-not now; I'm afraid I shall be late for lunch; I-I don't want to keep Miss Lindsay waiting."

"We don't lunch on Sunday; you forget, Miss Harding; we take early dinner; I assure you you shan't be late; they can't begin without me, and I'm always punctual. Pray don't be distressed."

"I-I can't stop now; I-I'm not feeling very well."

"You're not looking very well, I'm sorry to say; as Mr. Nash informed you."

She started.

"Mr. – What do you mean?"

"You were so engrossed with each other that you had no eyes for anything but yourselves; or you would certainly have noticed me. I was so close that I actually heard everything you said."

"Are you always spying?"

"Candidly, I very often am. I regard it as my duty to keep at least one eye on everything that's going on; that's a high ideal, but I do my best to live up to it. When I had that little conversation with you with reference to the three thousand pounds you found, I endeavoured to assure you that you might rely implicitly on my discretion; but, at the same time, I did not bargain that you would throw the money away on such a man as Herbert Nash."

"Morgan! you-you forget yourself."

"Not at all, Miss Harding, not at all. When first I saw you together my feeling was one of resentment; but, when I heard what was said, my resentment grew less; for one reason, because I perceived that I might be able to work with Mr. Nash, as well as with you."

"You might work with Mr. Nash? What do you mean?"

"Is it not obvious? As you are doubtless aware, Mr. Nash is a young man of many possibilities."

"Possibilities?"

"You will remember that I told you that I saw possibilities in you, which have become facts. In the same sense I see possibilities in Herbert Nash, so that I may be able to work with him. We shall be a united trio."

"Do you-do you dare to hint-"

"Yes? do I dare to hint? pray finish."

"Let me pass! I'll have nothing to say to you! Get out of my way!"

"Still one moment, Miss Harding, if you please. I heard you ask Mr. Nash to marry you, which was rather 'coming on,' to use a kitchen phrase, wasn't it? Luckily he declined; the anxiety was plainly all on your side; or I should have objected."

"You would have objected! Do you suppose I should ask your permission?"

"If you didn't, and I did object, on your wedding-day I'd have you arrested at the church door; and if your husband was Herbert Nash that would be the last you'd see of him. When you came out of jail he'd slam the door in your face, unless I mistake the man, and he'd stick up a notice in his front garden, 'No convicted felons need apply.' It's not my wish to be disagreeable, Miss Harding, quite the other way; but I've a feeling that you don't want to treat me fairly; and in matters of this sort both sides expect fair treatment, it's only natural. I can tell you, at this moment, exactly what I propose, as Herbert Nash put it; I want time to find out where I'm standing; as you must see for yourself, everything's at sixes and sevens. But I can tell you what I don't propose; that you should hand over that three thousand pounds to a man who doesn't deserve it. You catch what I mean? I fancy you will if you think it over." He glanced at his watch. "Now I am afraid that I must go; if you go straight home you'll have plenty of time to tittivate; and I do trust, Miss Harding, that, at dinner, you'll be once more the charming, lively, high-spirited young lady I've always loved to rest my eyes upon."

When the gong sounded for dinner Miss Lindsay was informed, by the butler, that although Miss Harding had been out, and had returned, she had sent down word that her headache was still so bad that she wanted nothing to eat, and preferred to remain in her own room. Whereupon Nora went up-stairs to make inquiries on her own account. She found the young lady's door was locked. Having tapped twice without eliciting a response, the third time she knocked more peremptorily, exclaiming-

"Elaine! please let me in! it's Nora."

A shrill voice cried out within.

"I can't let you in! I won't! I only want people to let me alone."

Wondering, Nora let her alone, and went down to a solitary dinner; while Elaine lay face downward on the bed, wildly asking herself if suicide was not the best way out of it.

That night there came to Nora still another variation of the dream which she had dreamed before. Throughout the day she had been conscious of a sense of curious depression; as if she was realizing, for the first time, how wholly alone in the world she was, and was likely to remain. She had said good-bye to the man she loved; Mr. Spencer's story of the envelope which her father had sent him was an odd one; but the envelope was lost. She resented with a bitterness of which she had not imagined herself capable the fact that he had lost it; she had not put her bitterness into words, she had not wished to reproach him; it was contrary to her nature to reproach any one; but it had seemed to her the hardest blow which fate had dealt her yet, and that it should have come from him! If the envelope were found it was possible that it might contain the key to the mystery of Donald Lindsay's money; so that it would be shown that she was, after all, pecuniarily, in the fortunate position her father had led her to suppose she would be. But, to begin with, it had to be found. It seemed that its loser had already been making strenuous efforts to recover it, without success; if it was to be retrieved surely it was most likely to be the case when the scent was hot. What reason was there to suppose that the search which had failed when the conditions were more favourable was likely to have a more satisfactory result now that everything was against it? Even if the envelope was regained there was still the-should she say probability, or possibility? – that its contents might lead to nothing after all. Disappointments had crowded on her so fast lately that it would only be in the natural order of things if she was to be visited by yet another.

Almost worse than all the rest; suppose the envelope was recovered, and it was found that she was indeed an heiress, still to her the world would never again be what it was; in her heart of hearts she knew it; it was that knowledge which, that Sunday, weighed on her so heavily. During the last few days disillusions had come to her from every quarter. Whatever the future might have in store for her the attitude taken up by the Earl and Countess of Mountdennis was one which she never could forget. That her position as an heiress had heightened her charms in their eyes she had known; but she had supposed that they had cared for her a little for herself. That bubble was blown. Common decency, it seemed to her, would have bade them extend to her at least some show of sympathy. Plainly such an idea had not occurred to them. All they had done was to revile her for having lost everything she valued most, father, home, all; as if the fault was hers, and she had been engaged in a conspiracy to bring about her own destruction; they had made it so hideously clear that, from the first, and all along, they had only thought of her as a representative of so many pounds, shillings and pence; not a creature of flesh and blood, who was one day to stand to them in the place of a daughter, to be loved and cherished by their son. Though to-morrow millions were to come tumbling into her lap her lovers' parents could never now be what she had once hoped they would become; with their own hands they had rent into nothing the veil of illusion through which she had seen them.

That Robert was not as they were she admitted, gladly admitted. Yet he was their son; if she became his wife she would be in duty bound to regard his parents, in a sense, as hers; how could she pretend filial attachment and respect for such persons as they had shown themselves to be? Hers was the young girl's high ideal of marriage; husband and wife ought to be one; they ought to have a common community of interest; what was dear to the one should be dear to the other; how would that ideal work out if she were to marry Robert Spencer? Obviously, it would not work at all; he would be on one side; his parents-not improbably all his relatives and friends-would be on the other side, against her. It would begin in dissension, and end-where? Even the discovery that she was rich would make but little difference; she was not going to buy a husband from his father and mother, well knowing that all they wanted for the light of their countenance was their price, and that they would only consent to receive her into the family circle if she came plastered with gold. Rather than become a wife upon those terms she would remain a spinster all her life. She knew her weakness; if she came within reach of Robert her love-his love-might prove greater than her strength; that morning it had been all that she could do to keep herself out of his arms. Next time-and she was pretty sure that if Robert was in the neighbourhood there would be a next time before very long-she might succumb, and regret it ever afterwards. Better that she should leave Cloverlea than run such a risk.

The probability that she would have to go-whether she wanted to go or not-had been continually in her mind since she had heard Dr. Banyard's statement of her affairs; and with it there had been a hazy sort of notion that, when the moment of parting came, she might find temporary refuge in Elaine Harding's home in the west country, as a guest in her father's vicarage. Elaine had asked her often; it was true that the invitations had been coupled with intimations that the vicarage was but a humble one, and would seem but a poor place to the heiress of Cloverlea. But now circumstances had changed; to Nora any place seemed desirable where she would be welcome; especially her dear friend's home, however modest it might be. Although she would not confess it even to herself she had vaguely expected that Elaine would have spoken to her on the subject before now; Elaine had always been so full of protestations of what she would do-of what she would love to do-for Nora, if opportunity ever offered, in return for all that Nora had done for her. But now that opportunity did offer, and Elaine was well aware of the plight which Nora was shortly likely to be in, not a hint had she dropped of a disposition to be of service to her in any way whatever. More, it seemed to Nora that Elaine was avoiding her as if misfortune had made of her a pariah. It was true that she excused herself by alleging illness; and Nora was not prepared to say that her illness was diplomatic. But during all the time they had known each other Elaine had always enjoyed excellent health; so far as Nora knew-and they had been intimate for years-she had not endured an ache or pain until the moment arrived when it seemed likely that she might be able to render some slight services to the friend who had done so much for her.

It was not strange that Nora took it for granted that she need expect nothing from the dearest friend she had in the world; and that that feeling did not tend to lighten the load of depression which, that Sunday, weighed on her so heavily.

In the evening she took stock of such possessions as, in any case, she might be entitled to call her own. She had it strongly in her mind that she and Elaine might soon be parted; just how close the hour of parting was she could not tell, but she felt that, whenever it came, it would be as well that it should find her ready. There had been, she knew, a meeting of the creditors yesterday; exactly what course they had decided to pursue she had not learnt; and, again, that troubled her; she felt that either Dr. Banyard or Mr. Nash might have let her have some sort of intimation. But, anyhow, from what she had gathered it seemed likely that before long there would be strangers at Cloverlea; when they came she must go, practically on the instant. Even if their coming was postponed it appeared to her that she must go. It cost money to keep up Cloverlea; since the little money which her father had left belonged to the creditors, when she came to consider the matter calmly, it seemed to her that she had no real right to remain another hour. Her continued stay in that huge house involved the expenditure of money to which it had not yet been shown that she had any claim; even if money enough had been discovered to keep it going for another week, which she doubted.

No; it seemed to her, from whatever point of view she regarded the position, that the hour was close at hand for the parting of the ways; and that it behoved her to be ready for it when it came.

CHAPTER XV

'SO EARLY IN THE MORNING'

So she took stock of such things as, whatever befell, she felt that she would have a right to take away with her from Cloverlea; it seemed to her that, since God had opened her eyes to her actual situation, He would forgive her for undertaking, on the Sabbath evening, what He had shown her was a work of necessity. A pathetic business that stocktaking was, and a queer one, and not a very heavy one either.

She began with the money. She concluded that such cash as her father had given her for her own separate and private use she might still call her own, and use as her own. Had she been dealing with a sum of any magnitude she would have hesitated; for this young woman was a Don Quixote in petticoats, and would rather starve than eat food which she even fancied belonged to others; but she was not dealing with a sum of any magnitude. Her father had always made her a generous allowance, of which she had always made a generous use; regarding herself as, in a sense, her father's almoner, she used far the larger part of it in works of charity. Since she left school it had been his custom to give her, four times a year, a sum of one hundred and twenty-five pounds, always in gold. It had been one of his peculiarities that he had never given her either cheques or bank-notes, but always sovereigns. One of the quarterly sums had always been handed to her during the first week in April; she had been expecting it when her father had been taken ill. As a matter of fact, it was her hundred and twenty-five sovereigns, plus two more, which had formed that little heap of gold which was on the study table when Elaine Harding first adventured through the window. So, as that little heap had never found its way to her, all she actually possessed was what was left from last quarter-and the first three months of the year always were such expensive months. During the winter there was apt to be so much want and suffering; sometimes she found it hard to make both ends meet, even though she spent scarcely anything on herself at all. However, that winter quarter there had been something over; that something represented her entire fortune, nearly nine pounds; to be exact, eight pounds fourteen and eightpence. Even the most clamorous creditor might have suffered her to go out to face the world with that. Especially as beyond that Nora had very little of a portable nature which she considered she would be justified in regarding as her own, except her clothes.