Miss Rowly had received a bulky letter by the morning's post. She had
not opened it, but had allowed it to rest beside her plate all breakfast-
time. Then she had taken it away with her to her own sitting-room.
Stephen did not appear to take any notice of it. She knew quite well
that it was from some one in London whom her aunt had asked to pay
Leonard's bills. She also knew that the old lady had some purpose in her
reticence, so she waited. She was learning to be patient in these days.
Miss Rowly did say anything about it that day, or the next, or the next.
The third-morning, she received another letter which she had read in an
enlightening manner. She began its perusal with set brow frowning, then
she nodded her head and smiled. She put the letter back in its envelope
and placed it in the little bag always carried. But she said nothing.
Stephen wondered, but waited.
That night, when Stephen's maid had left her, there came a gentle tap at
her door, and an instant after the door opened. The tap had been a
warning, not a request; it had in a measure prepared Stephen, who was not
surprised to see her Aunt in dressing-gown, though it was many a long day
since she had visited her niece's room at night. She closed the door
behind her, saying:
'There is something I want to talk to you about, dearest, and I thought
it would be better to do so when there could not be any possible
interruption. And besides,' here there was a little break in her voice,
'I could hardly summon up my courage in the daylight.' She stopped, and
the stopping told its own story. In an instant Stephen's arm's were
round her, all the protective instinct in her awake, at the distress of
the woman she loved. The old lady took comfort from the warmth of the
embrace, and held her tight whilst she went on:
'It is about these bills, my dear. Come and sit down and put a candle
near me. I want you to read something.'
'Go on, Auntie dear,' she said gravely. The old lady, after a pause,
spoke with a certain timidity:
'They are all paid; at least all that can be. Perhaps I had better read
you the letter I have had from my solicitors:
'"Dear Madam,--In accordance with your instructions we have paid all the
accounts mentioned in Schedule A (enclosed). We have placed for your
convenience three columns: (1) the original amount of each account, (2)
the amount of discount we were able to arrange, and (3) the amount paid.
We regret that we have been unable to carry out your wishes with regard
to the items enumerated in Schedule B (enclosed). We have, we assure
you, done all in our power to find the gentlemen whose names and
addresses are therein given. These were marked 'Debt of honour' in the
list you handed to us. Not having been able to obtain any reply to our
letters, we sent one of our clerks first to the addresses in London, and
afterwards to Oxford. That clerk, who is well used to such inquiries,
could not find trace of any of the gentlemen, or indeed of their
existence. We have, therefore, come to the conclusion that, either there
must be some error with regard to (a) names, (b) addresses, or (c) both;
or that no such persons exist. As it would be very unlikely that such
errors could occur in all the cases, we can only conclude that there have
not been any such persons. If we may hazard an opinion: it is possible
that, these debts being what young men call 'debts of honour,' the
debtor, or possibly the creditors, may not have wished the names
mentioned. In such case fictitious names and addresses may have been
substituted for the real ones. If you should like any further inquiry
instituted we would suggest that you ascertain the exact names and
addresses from the debtor. Or should you prefer it we would see the
gentleman on your behalf, on learning from you his name and address. We
can keep, in the person of either one of the Firm or a Confidential Clerk
as you might prefer, any appointment in such behalf you may care to make.
'"We have already sent to you the receipted account from each of the
creditors as you directed, viz. 'Received from Miss Laetitia Rowly in
full settlement to date of the account due by Mr. Leonard Everard the sum
of,' etc. etc. And also, as you further directed, a duplicate receipt of
the sum-total due in each case made out as 'Received in full settlement
to date of account due by,' etc. etc. The duplicate receipt was pinned
at the back of each account so as to be easily detachable.
'"With regard to finance we have carried out your orders, etc."' She
hurried on the reading. "These sums, together with the amounts of nine
hundred pounds sterling, and seven hundred pounds sterling lodged to the
account of Miss Stephen Norman in the Norcester branch of the Bank as
repayment of moneys advanced to you as by your written instructions, have
exhausted the sum, etc."' She folded up the letter with the schedules,
laying the bundle of accounts on the table. Stephen paused; she felt it
necessary to collect herself before speaking.
'Auntie dear, will you let me see that letter? Oh, my dear, dear Auntie,
don't think I mistrust you that I ask it. I do because I love you, and
because I want to love you more if it is possible to do so.' Miss Rowly
handed her the letter. She rose from the arm of the chair and stood
beside the table as though to get better light from the candle than she
could get from where she had sat.
She read slowly and carefully to the end; then folded up the letter and
handed it to her aunt. She came back to her seat on the edge of the
chair, and putting her arms round her companion's neck looked her
straight in the eyes. The elder woman grew embarrassed under the
scrutiny; she coloured up and smiled in a deprecatory way as she said:
'Don't look at me like that, darling; and don't shake your head so. It
is all right! I told you I had my reasons, and you said you would trust
me. I have only done what I thought best!'
'But, Auntie, you have paid away more than half your little fortune. I
know all the figures. Father and uncle told me everything. Why did you
do it? Why did you do it?' The old woman held out her arms as she said:
'Come here, dear one, and sit on my knee as you used to when you were a
child, and I will whisper you.' Stephen sprang from her seat and almost
threw herself into the loving arms. For a few seconds the two, clasped
tight to each other's heart, rocked gently to and fro. The elder kissed
the younger and was kissed impulsively in return. Then she stroked the
beautiful bright hair with her wrinkled hand, and said admiringly:
'What lovely hair you have, my dear one!' Stephen held her closer and
waited.
'Well, my dear, I did it because I love you!'
'I know that, Auntie; you have never done anything else my life!'
'That is true, dear one. But it is right that I should do this. Now you
must listen to me, and not speak till I have done. Keep your thoughts on
my words, so that you may follow my thoughts. You can do your own
thinking about them afterwards. And your own talking too; I shall listen
as long as you like!'
'Go on, I'll be good!'
'My dear, it is not right that you should appear to have paid the debts
of a young man who is no relation to you and who will, I know well, never
be any closer to you than he is now.' She hurried on, as though fearing
an interruption, but Stephen felt that her clasp tightened. 'We never
can tell what will happen as life goes on. And, as the world is full of
scandal, one cannot be too careful not to give the scandalmongers
anything to exercise their wicked spite upon. I don't trust that young
man! he is a bad one all round, or I am very much mistaken. And, my
dear, come close to me! I cannot but see that you and he have some
secret which he is using to distress you!' She paused, and her clasp
grew closer still as Stephen's head sank on her breast. 'I know you have
done something or said something foolish of which he has a knowledge. And
I know my dear one, that whatever it was, and no matter how foolish it
may have been, it was not a wrong thing. God knows, we are all apt to do
wrong things as well as foolish ones; the best of us. But such is not
for you! Your race, your father and mother, your upbringing, yourself
and the truth and purity which are yours would save you from anything
which was in itself wrong. That I know, my dear, as well as I know
myself! Ah! better, far better! for the gods did not think it well to
dower me as they have dowered you. The God of all the gods has given you
the ten talents to guard; and He knows, as I do, that you will be
faithful to your trust.'
There was a solemn ring in her voce as the words were spoken which went
through the young girl's heart. Love and confidence demanded in return
that she should have at least the relief of certain acquiescence; there
is a possible note of pain in the tensity of every string! Stephen
lifted her head proudly and honestly, though her cheeks were scarlet,
saying with a consciousness of integrity which spoke directly soul to
soul:
'You are right, dear! I have done something very foolish; very, very
foolish! But it was nothing which any one could call wrong. Do not ask
me what it was. I need only tell you this: that it was an outrage on
convention. It was so foolish, and based on such foolish misconception;
it sprang from such over-weening, arrogant self-opinion that it deserves
the bitter punishment which will come; which is coming; which is with me
now! It was the cause of something whose blackness I can't yet realise;
but of which I will tell you when I can speak of it. But it was not
wrong in itself, or in the eyes of God or man!' The old woman said not a
word. No word was needed, for had she not already expressed her belief?
But Stephen felt her relief in the glad pressure of her finger-tips. In
a voice less strained and tense Miss Rowly went on:
'What need have I for money, dear? Here I have all that any woman,
especially at my age, can need. There is no room even for charity; you
are so good to all your people that my help is hardly required. And, my
dear one, I know--I know,' she emphasised the word as she stroked the
beautiful hair, 'that when I am gone my own poor, the few that I have
looked after all my life, will, not suffer when my darling thinks of me!'
Stephen fairly climbed upon her as she said, looking in the brave old
eyes:
'So help me God, my darling, they shall never want!'
Silence for a time; and then Miss Rowly's voice again:
'Though it would not do for the world to know that a young maiden lady
had paid the debts of a vicious young man, it makes no matter if they be
paid by an old woman, be the same maid, wife, or widow! And really, my
dear, I do not see how any money I might have could be better spent than
in keeping harm away from you.'
'There need not be any harm at all, Auntie.'
'Perhaps not, dear! I hope not with all my heart. But I fear that young
man. Just fancy him threatening you, and in your own house; in my very
presence! Oh! yes, my dear. He meant to threaten, anyhow! Though I
could not exactly understand what he was driving at, I could see that he
was driving at something. And after all that you were doing for him, and
had done for him! I mean, of course, after all that I had done for him,
and was doing for him. It is mean enough, surely, for a man to beg, and
from a woman; but to threaten afterwards. Ach! But I think, my dear, it
is checkmate to him this time. All along the line the only proof that is
of there being any friendliness towards him from this house points to me.
And moreover, my dear, I have a little plan in my head that will tend to
show him up even better, in case he may ever try to annoy us. Look at me
when next he is here. I mean to do a little play-acting which will
astonish him, I can tell you, if it doesn't frighten him out of the house
altogether. But we won't talk of that yet. You will understand when you
see it!' Her eyes twinkled and her mouth shut with a loud snap as she
spoke.
After a few minutes of repose, which was like a glimpse of heaven to
Stephen's aching heart, she spoke again:
'There was something else that troubled you more than even this. You
said you would tell me when you were able to speak of it . . . Why not
speak now? Oh! my dear, our hearts are close together to-night; and in
all your life, you will never have any one who will listen with greater
sympathy than I will, or deal more tenderly with your fault, whatever it
may have been. Tell me, dear! Dear!' she whispered after a pause,
during which she realised the depth of the girl's emotion by her
convulsive struggling to keep herself in check.
All at once the tortured girl seemed to yield herself, and slipped
inertly from her grasp till kneeling down she laid her head in the
motherly lap and sobbed. Miss Rowly kept stroking her hair in silence.
Presently the girl looked up, and with a pang the aunt saw that her eyes
were dry. In her pain she said:
'You sob like that, my child, and yet you are not crying; what is it, oh!
my dear one? What is it that hurts you so that you cannot cry?'
And then the bitter sobbing broke out again, but still alas! without
tears. Crouching low, and still enclosing her aunt's waist with her
outstretched arms and hiding her head in her breast; she said:
'Oh! Auntie, I have sent Harold away!'
'What, my dear? What?' said the old lady astonished. 'Why, I thought
there was no one in the world that you trusted so much as Harold!'
'It is true. There was--there is no one except you whom I trust so much.
But I mistook something he said. I was in a blind fury at the time, and
I said things that I thought my father's daughter never could have said.
And she never thought them, even then! Oh, Auntie, I drove him away with
all the horrible things I could say that would wound him. And all
because he acted in a way that I see now was the most noble and knightly
in which any man could act. He that my dear father had loved, and
honoured, and trusted as another son. He that was a real son to him, and
not a mock sop like me. I sent him away with such fierce and bitter pain
that his poor face was ashen grey, and there was woe in his eyes that
shall make woe in mine whenever I shall see them in my mind, waking or
sleeping. He, the truest friend . . . the most faithful, the most
tender, the most strong, the most unselfish! Oh! Auntie, Auntie, he just
turned and bowed and went away. And he couldn't do anything else with
the way I spoke to him; and now I shall never see him again!'
The young girl's eyes ware still dry, but the old woman's were wet. For
a few minutes she kept softly stroking the bowed heat till the sobbing
grew less and less, and then died away; and the girl lay still, collapsed
in the abandonment of dry-eyed grief.
Then she rose, and taking off her dressing-gown, said tenderly:
'Let me stay with you to-night, dear one? Go to sleep in my arms, as you
did long ago when there was any grief that you could not bear.'
So Stephen lay in those loving arms till her own young breast ceased
heaving, and she breathed softly. Till dawn she slept on the bosom of
her who loved her so well.