Ричард Марш
A Woman Perfected

CHAPTER XIII
LOVERS' TIFFS

Nora had not long been gone to church before Miss Harding became sufficiently cured of her headache to permit of her quitting her own apartment. Perhaps she was of opinion that fresh air would do it good; and, notoriously, fresh air is good for headaches; certainly she looked very far from well. She donned her smartest hat, and one of her prettiest frocks, relinquishing, for the nonce, the black dress she had been wearing for her lately departed host. She attired herself with the greatest care, giving minute attention to those small details which mean so much; possibly she was under the impression that costume might have something to do with a cure-yet all her care could not conceal the fact that she was looking ill. When she saw how white she was, and the black marks under the eyes-and actually wrinkles in the corners, and how thin and worn and pinched her face seemed to have suddenly become, she could have cried, only she was painfully conscious that tears had already had too large a share in bringing her to the state in which she was. If she could she would have "assisted nature," only she had nothing with which to do it. Nora's opinions on the subject of "aids to beauty" were strong; Elaine had frequently declared that hers were even stronger. That was the worst of being in the position of "humble friend"; one had sometimes to pretend that one thought what one really did not think, or so it seemed to her. If she had only had a little "something," in a jar, or in a tube, or a stick, or anything-but she would not have dared to run the risk of allowing Nora to find such a thing in her possession. Moreover, until then she had never wanted it. Still, if she had been left alone-that was how she put it-she might have had it by her. Now that she really wanted something, she had absolutely not a thing-obviously the fault of that was Nora's.

The consequence was that when at last she sallied out into the grounds she was conscious that she was not looking her best, in spite of her hat and frock-she knew that there was nothing amiss with them; and that morning it was so very desirable that she should look even better than her best, because she was going to meet Mr. Herbert Nash, and was particularly anxious to twist him round her finger. Every one knows that, where a man's concerned, the better one looks the easier that operation is apt to be found. Miss Harding made one slight error; she ought to have remembered that when one is not looking one's best matters are not improved by being in a bad temper. Good temper may almost act as an "aid to beauty," bad temper certainly won't; and, unfortunately, Miss Harding was so conscious of her defects that her temper suffered.

Nor was it mended by the fact that the gentleman kept her waiting. Perhaps that headache of hers had had something to do with the accident that she had an appointment to keep. She had asked Mr. Nash to let her see him somewhere on Sunday morning, where they could be alone, and he had told her he would be by the fish-pond at such and such an hour. She herself was a little late at the trysting-place; her toilette had taken longer than she had intended; still she was first. She waited-she had no watch, but it seemed that she waited hours, yet he did not come. By the time he did appear her mood was hardly lover-like; nor, it seemed, was his. He came strolling leisurely through the trees, his hands in his jacket pockets, a cane under his arm, a big cigar in his mouth, his hat at a rakish angle-quite at his ease; there was something in his appearance which would hardly have induced the average client to select him as his legal adviser. Elaine always had a more or less vague feeling that this was so; the feeling was stronger than usual as she watched him coming; yet the man had for her such an intense physical fascination that she deliberately refused to let her eyes see what they would have perceived plainly enough if she had only let them. More or less, it was possibly because she realized that that Sunday morning he did not look quite so desirable an example of his sex as he might have done that her greeting was hardly saccharine.

"You've taken your time in coming."

He planted himself in front of her, without removing his hands from his pockets, his cane from under his arm, his cigar from his mouth, or his hat from his head.

"Well, what's the hurry? I had to see a man."

"You knew I was waiting; you might have let him wait."

"I might; but I didn't. Hello! what's wrong?"

He was looking her up and down in a way which made her tingle.

"What do you mean-what's wrong?"

"You look-no offence intended-but you look as if you'd been up all night-a hot night too."

"I have a headache, and waiting for you hasn't made it any better."

"A headache? My mother used to have headaches, and, my word! when she had them didn't she use to make it warm for us. I used to say-"

He stopped, and laughed.

"What did you use to say?"

"I used to say-again no offence intended-that I'd never marry a woman who had headaches."

"I'm not subject to headaches-don't suppose it; I scarcely ever have them; in fact, I don't ever remember having had one before; only-I've been worried."

"Have you? that's bad. Don't do it; be like me-don't let yourself be worried by anything." He took out his cigar and surveyed the ash. "I read somewhere the other day that it's worry makes people grow old before their time; I don't believe much I read, but I do believe that. No matter what goes wrong, don't worry, it will come right; that's my theory of life."

"It's very easy to talk, it's harder to do. You don't seem very pleased to see me now that you have come."

"Don't I? I am; I'm as pleased as Punch."

"You don't show it."

"How do you expect me to show it? By taking you in my arms and kissing you out here in broad daylight, with you don't know what eyes enjoying the fun? If you'll come over the stile into the wood you shall have all the kissing you want-before lunch."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, and I expect you to do nothing of the kind, as you very well know; only-" She suddenly changed the subject. "Did you see Mr. Dawson yesterday, and arrange about the partnership?"

"I saw him, but I can't say I did much more than see him. He didn't seem to be so enthusiastic about the idea of having me for a partner as I expected, and-I can't say I'm very enthusiastic."

"What do you mean? The other day you said it was just the thing you would like to be."

"Yes, in a sense-in default of something better; but I don't want to be premature; since the other day something has occurred to me which may turn out to be better than a partnership with the venerable Mr. Dawson-who, between ourselves, is as supercilious an old beast as I ever want to meet-a good deal better."

"What is it, Herbert?"

She was observing him with-in her eyes, and on her face-an eagerness, a something strained, of which he seemed unconscious, and of which, no doubt, she was unconscious also.

"Excuse me, but that's exactly what I can't tell you-not at the present moment. It's still, as you may say, in the embryo-in the making; but it's there."

He touched his forehead with his finger, as if to denote that the something in question had a safe location in his brain.

"Can't-can't you give me some idea of what it is?"

"It depends on what you call an idea. I'll tell you this much; I'm meditating a coup-a great coup; if I bring it off it'll mean a really big thing; how big I can't tell you, not just now-I don't know myself; but something altogether beyond anything a partnership with old Dawson would mean.

"Herbert, I hope it's nothing risky."

She had run such a risk herself she wanted him to run none; she had had enough of risks, for ever.

"That depends again on what you mean by risky. I'm not sure that I shall go in for it; I haven't quite finished turning it over in my mind; I don't altogether see my way; but if, by the time I have finished turning it over in my mind, I do see my way, why, there you are; I'm a starter. Of course there's always the risk of my not bringing it off, though you may bet I'll do my best" – he said this with a very curious smile; a smile which, for some reason, seemed to bring a sense of chill to her heart. "But I shall be no worse off if I don't-there's no risk in that sense. Then will be the time to join myself in partnership with dear old Dawson."

She drew a long breath. The position was becoming complicated. She had not dreamed that he would have formed a scheme of his own, which she was to be kept out of, or she would not have gone, the second time, through the study window.

"Will-will any money be wanted for what you're thinking of?"

"No; not, at least, from you; of course, money will be wanted, but-it will come from some one else, if it comes at all; that's the idea; plenty of it too."

Again that curious smile came on his face; that, this time, it positively frightened her, showed what a state her nerves were in.

"Herbert, of what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking-of a real big thing."

As she watched him some instinct warned her not to push her curiosity too far; yet there were certain things she must know.

"How long-will it take you to make up your mind?"

"That's something else I can't tell you; I never may make it up. You see, I'm only mentioning this so that you can understand why I'm not anxious to press old Dawson, just yet awhile. There's nothing to be lost by waiting; I'm in no hurry."

"How about our marriage?"

"What do you mean-how about our marriage?"

She would have liked to have told him just what she did mean-that she had invented her aunt's legacy simply because she wanted to be married at once. But she could not do that; she had to get to the point some other way.

"You said if you had enough money to buy a partnership in Mr. Dawson's business we might be married at once; that's why I told you about my aunt's legacy."

"That's all right; the legacy'll keep; what's the harm?"

"The harm is-it's not nice of you to make me say so, though-you ought to be-you ought to be flattered."

"I am flattered."

"You're not! I don't believe you care for me one bit, or-or you'd know I want to be married."

"So you shall be."

"When?"

"Oh, when I've had time enough to find out where I'm standing; say in a month or two."

"Herbert, you should never have had that two hundred pounds if you hadn't promised me that we should be married at once."

"What do you call at once?"

"Next week."

"Next week! why, that's Easter!"

"Well, why shouldn't we be married at Easter?"

"Good gracious! Where do you propose to set up housekeeping? in my rooms?"

"Not necessarily in your rooms; but in some rooms-nice rooms, for the present; they needn't be just about here. I've money enough to go on with-plenty of money; and you might think over what you've been talking about, and come to a decision, while-while we're on our honeymoon."

Again he took the cigar out of his mouth, and again he regarded the ash; it was white, and long, and firm; it seemed it was a good cigar; and while he was still regarding the ash, he observed-

"Young woman, there's more in you than meets the eye. There's something in what you say; I admit there's a good deal in what you say. I'll give it my serious attention."

"Your serious attention! Won't you understand? Any day I may have to leave this place."

"That's true enough, unless you propose to remain on the premises while the catalogue s being drawn up, and the lots are being ticketed."

"Herbert! What do you mean?"

"Nothing to speak of; only I happen to know that the principal creditors don't mean to wait for their money a moment longer than they can help. Either the estate will have to be administered in bankruptcy, or Miss Nora Lindsay will have to agree to the whole thing being sold-lock, stock and barrel, for what it will fetch."

"When?"

"As a matter of fact, they want to come into the place and start the catalogue to-morrow."

"But what will become of Nora?"

"Quite so."

"Where will she go?"

"Where will she?"

"Couldn't she-couldn't she come and live with us?"

"What's that?"

"Couldn't she-live with us?"

"Who's us?"

"With you and me-just for a time-when we're married?"

Mr. Nash looked the lady straight in the face, significantly; his tone was as significant as his look.

"My dear, I don't think you care for Miss Nora Lindsay one snap of your fingers, and I'm sure I don't."

"You've no right to say that."

"I fancy that you've a sort of notion that you ought to behave prettily to her because she's let you come and liven her up when she hadn't a soul in the place to speak to. So far as I can see, she's at least as much under an obligation as you are. She'd have been deadly dull without you; she'd have had to pay a companion, and pay her well, if it hadn't been for your society. You got nothing for your services; seems to me she owes you. Don't talk about her living with us! I wouldn't live under the same roof as Miss Nora Lindsay, not for a million a year. I don't like her-never did-never could; she's not the kind of girl I care about. What does it matter to me what becomes of her? Do you think she'd trouble if I came to eternal grief? Very much so! I fancy I see her at it! No, if you're going to take up with Miss Nora Lindsay you've done with me. There never has been any love lost between us, and now if I had my way I'd never see her or speak to her again. So if your sentiments are different I'll hand you back the two hundred pounds you so kindly threw into my face just now, and we'll cry quits. I'm not going to start by letting the girl who's going to be my wife mix herself up with people who are objectionable to me."

The expression which was on the girl's face, as she looked at him, was pitiful; had he been aware of the emotions which seemed to be tearing at her in a dozen different places at once, even he might have been moved to pity. Had his words been lashes they could hardly have hurt her more. She stood trembling, hardly able to speak.

"I-I'd no idea you-you felt like this-about-Nora."

"Hadn't you? Well, you know now; and as perhaps you'd like to have a little time to get the idea well into your head, I'll say good-day."

"Herbert, you-you mustn't go."

"Mustn't go? Why mustn't I go?"

"How about our marriage?"

"How about our marriage? – when just now you were talking about her coming to live with us."

"I-I-was only-suggesting."

"Then let me tell you that the suggestion's made me feel sick. I don't want any words-I hate them; and as I'm not going to be bustled, when I know that I ought not to allow myself to be bustled, as I remarked, I'll return you the money which you threw into my face just now."

"I-I didn't mean to throw it in your face."

"Then what did you mean? You as good as said that I'd been up for sale, and that you'd bought me; but as I didn't understand that I was being bought, I'll hand you back the purchase price, then perhaps I shall be able to call my soul my own."

"I-I-Herbert, don't-don't let's quarrel. I-I-you don't know how I love you."

"Very well, then, and I love you; so that's all right."

"Are you sure you love me? If I were only sure!"

"You may be dead sure; at the same time you must allow me to speak a few plain words. There's something the matter with you, and there has been for some little time; I don't know what it is-it may be a headache, as you say, but if it is it's the kind of headache which, if I were you, I should take something for. You've changed altogether during the last few days; the little girl I used to know wouldn't have tried to bully me into marrying her at a moment's notice, when I told her that I thought it would be better, for both our sakes, that we should wait a little. I promise you that as soon as I see my way I'll come and ask you to name the day, and I hope you'll name an early one. But, in the meantime, where's the hurry? So far as I know you'll get no harm by waiting; it isn't as though I was asking you to wait long-a month or two at most; and it isn't as though you were hard up; you've got the cash, not I. As for leaving the place, I should say the sooner you leave it the better; you've got a home to go to-what's wrong with your home? You can write to me, I can come and see you; or, if I can't manage to come, after a bit you might step over to see me; you might find quarters with a mutual friend-why not? My present advice to you is to take a dose of medicine, that is medicine, and lie down, and sleep it off; then when you're feeling more like yourself you'll see that I'm quite right; and then you might let me know, and we can have another little talk together. In the meantime, as I observed before, I'll say good-day. By the bye, if you do want that money back again, you've only got to let me have a line, and you shall have it."

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.