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2. The dipthong oe is represented by [oe].
A Woman Perfected
_By the same Author_
THE ROMANCE OF A MAID OF HONOUR
ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS
CURIOS: SOME STRANGE ADVENTURES OF TWO BACHELORS
MRS. MUSGRAVE AND HER HUSBAND
MISS ARNOTT'S MARRIAGE
THE MAGNETIC GIRL
CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG LADY
THE GARDEN OF MYSTERY
UNDER ONE FLAG
JOHN LONG, Publisher, London
A Woman Perfected
By
Richard Marsh
"Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected"
London
John Long
Norris Street, Haymarket
[_All Rights Reserved_]
_First published in_ 1907
Contents
CHAPTER
I. Stricken.
II. The Open Window.
III. Little by Little.
IV. The Avernian Slope.
V. Peter Piper's Popular Pills.
VI. Her Love Story.
VII. The Puzzle which Donald Lindsay left behind him.
VIII. A Philanthropist.
IX. The Butler.
X. The Earl and the Countess.
XI. Robert.
XII. In the Wood.
XIII. Lovers' Tiffs.
XIV. The Parting of the Ways.
XV. 'So Early in the Morning.'
XVI. GULDENHEIM.
XVII. Nora goes.
XVIII. Miss Gibb.
XIX. A Young Lady in Search of a Living.
XX. King Solomon.
XXI. Nora Finds Something to do.
XXII. Master and Man.
XXIII. A Jobbing Secretary.
XXIV. Mr. Morgan's Experiences of the Unexpected.
XXV. On their Honeymoon.
XXVI. An Offer of Friendship.
XXVII. A Royal Road to Fortune.
XXVIII. To be--or not to be--Postponed.
XXIX. In Joseph Oldfield's Flat.
XXX. When Thieves fall out.
XXXI. Husband and Wife.
XXXII. A Forgotten Coat.
XXXIII. The Autograph Album.
XXXIV. Unto the Light.
XXXV. Bread upon the Waters.
A Woman Perfected
CHAPTER I
STRICKEN
Donald Lindsay was prostrated by a stroke of apoplexy on Thursday,
April 3. It was surmised that the immediate cause was mental. He
arrived home apparently physically well, but in a state of what, for
him, was a state of unusual agitation. As a rule he was a dour man;
much given to silence; self-contained. At that time there was staying
at Cloverlea, with his daughter Nora, a school-friend, Elaine Harding.
During lunch both girls were struck by his unusual talkativeness.
Often during a meal he would hardly open his lips for any other
purpose except eating and drinking. That morning he talked volubly to
both girls on all sorts of subjects. After lunch Nora said laughingly
to Elaine--
"I wonder what's the matter with papa. I don't know when I remember
him so conversational."
He put in no appearance at tea; but as that was a common occurrence
his absence went unnoticed. When, however, the gong having sounded for
dinner, the girls were waiting for him in the drawing-room, and still
he did not come, Nora sent a servant to his dressing-room to inquire
if he would be long. The man returned to say that his master was
neither in his dressing-room nor his bedroom; that he had spent the
afternoon in his study, from which no one had seen him issue; that the
study door was locked, and knockings went unheeded. Nora, opening a
French window in the drawing-room, went along the terrace towards the
study.
The study opened on to the terrace. It had two long windows. At
neither of them were the blinds down or the curtains drawn. It was
elicited afterwards that the servant whose duty it was to attend to
such matters had knocked at the door when the shadows lowered. On
turning the handle, he found that it was locked; Mr. Lindsay informed
him from within that he would draw the blinds himself. It seemed that
he had not done so. The room was in darkness, with the exception of
the flicker of the firelight. Nora said to Miss Harding, who had
followed at her heels--
"Whatever does papa want with a fire on a day like this?" All that
week the weather had been not only warm, but positively hot. There had
been one of those hot spells which we sometimes get in April; and, as
frequently, have to do without in August. Save in the evenings and
early mornings fires had remained unlit in all the living rooms. That
Thursday had been the hottest day of all. Mr. Lindsay was one of those
persons who seldom felt the cold, but quickly suffered from the heat.
He preferred to be without a fire in his own apartments when the rest
of the establishment was glad enough to be within reach of a cheerful
blaze. That there should be one in his study on such a day as that
struck his daughter as strange. She stood close up to the window, her
friend at her side. "The room seems empty."
"It is empty," said Miss Harding. Nora knocked, without result.
"What's the use of knocking? There's no one there." Nora tried the
handle first of one window, then of the other; both were fastened.
"What's the use?" asked Miss Harding. "Any one can see that the room
is empty. There's light enough for that."
At that moment the fire flared up in such a way that all the room
within was lit by its radiance; so clearly lit as to make it plain
that it had no occupant.
"But," observed Nora, "if it's empty why should the door be locked?
Papa never leaves it locked when he's not inside."
Two figures approached through the darkness. In front was the
housekeeper, Mrs. Steele.
"Miss Nora," she began, "you'd better go indoors. I'm afraid there's
something wrong."
"Why should I go indoors?" the girl demanded. "And what can be wrong?
We can see all over the room; we saw plainly just now, didn't we,
Elaine? There's no one there."
"Your father's there," said Mrs. Steele.
Her tone was grim. Before Nora could ask how she knew that, there was
a crash of glass. Looking round with a start she found that Stephen
Morgan, the butler, had broken a pane in the other window.
"Morgan," she cried, "what are you doing?"
"This is the shortest way in," he answered.
He thrust his arm through the broken pane; lifted the hasp; the window
was open. He went through it. Nora was following when she was checked
by Mrs. Steele.
"Miss Nora," she persisted, "you had better go indoors."
"I am going indoors; isn't this indoors? If, as you put it, there is
something wrong, who is more concerned than I?" All four entered.
Morgan, who had passed round to the other side of the large
writing-table, which was in the centre of the room, gave a sudden
exclamation. Nora hurried round to where he was. Some one was lying
huddled up on the floor; as if, slipping awkwardly out of his chair,
he had lain helplessly where he had fallen. Nora dropped on her knees
by his side. "Papa!" she cried. "Father!"
No one answered. Morgan lit the lamp which always stood on Mr.
Lindsay's writing-table. In the days which followed Nora often had
occasion to ask herself what, exactly, happened next. She was
conscious that in the room there was a strong smell of burnt paper;
always, afterwards, when her nostrils were visited by the odour of
charred paper that scene came back to her. The cause of the smell was
not far to seek; the hearth was full of ashes. Evidently Mr. Lindsay
had been burning papers on a wholesale scale; apparently for that
reason he had had a fire; Nora had a vague impression--which recurred
to her, later, again and again--that many of the papers were only
partially consumed. The room was littered with papers; they were all
over the table; on chairs, on the floor; drawers stood open, papers
peeped out of them; which was the more remarkable since Mr. Lindsay
was the soul of neatness. Plainly the finger of God had touched him
when he was still in the midst of the task which he had set himself.
There came a time when Nora had reason to wish that she had retained
her self-possession sufficiently to give instructions that all papers,
both burnt and unburnt, were to be left exactly as they were; and had
taken steps to ensure those instructions being carried out. But at the
moment all she thought of was her father. He was not dead; his
stertorous breathing was proof of that. They carried him up-stairs;
undressed him, put him to bed, who an hour or two before had been the
hale, strong man; who had never known what it was to be sick; who had
so loved to do everything for himself.
Apoplexy was Dr. Banyard's pronouncement, when he appeared upon the
scene; though there were features about the case which induced him to
fall in readily with Nora's suggestion that a specialist should be
sent for from town. The great man arrived in the middle of the night.
When he saw Nora he was sententious but vague, as great doctors are
apt to be; the girl gathered from his manner that the worst was to be
feared.
On the following day, the Friday, towards evening, Mr. Lindsay
partially regained consciousness--that is, he opened his eyes, and
when his child leaned over him it was plain he knew her, though he got
no further than the mere recognition. He could neither speak, nor
move, nor do anything for himself at all. That night Nora dreamed
a dream. She dreamed that her father came into her room in his
night-shirt, and leaned over her, and whispered that he had something
to say to her--which he must say to her; but which was for her ear
alone--he was just about to tell her what it was when she woke up. So
strong had the conviction of his actual presence been that for some
moments she could not believe that it was a dream; she started up in
bed fully expecting to find him standing by her side. When she found
that he was not close enough to touch she leaned out of bed,
murmuring--
"Father! father!"
It was only after she had lit a candle that she was constrained to the
belief that it was a dream. Even then she was incredulous. She
actually carried her candle to the door, and looked out into the
passage, half expecting to see him passing along it. When she returned
into her room she was in a curious condition, both mentally and
bodily. She trembled so that she had to sink on to a chair. Then she
did what she had not done for years--she cried. If she had had to say
what prompted her tears, her explanation would have been a curious
one; she would have had to say that she cried because of her father's
grief; that it was his anguish which moved her to tears. Dream or no
dream, what had struck her about him, as he leaned over her as she lay
in bed, was his agony. In all the years she had known him she had
never known him show signs of emotion; yet, as he leant over her she
had felt, even in her sleep, that he was under the stress of some
terrible trouble; that he wished to say to her what he had to say so
much that his anxiety to say it was tearing at the very roots of his
being. It was some minutes before she regained her self-control; when
she did she slipped on a dressing-gown and went to her father's room.
The night nurse answered her unspoken question by informing her that
no change had taken place; that the sick man was just as he had been.
Nora moved to his bed. There he lay, on his back, exactly as before.
She had the feeling strong upon her that he had heard her coming;
that, in some strange fashion, he was glad to see her; though, when
she stood beside him, he looked up at her with such agony in his eyes
that the sight of it brought tears to hers. Again there came to her
that odd conviction which had possessed her when she woke out of
sleep, that there was something which he strenuously wished to say to
her; that he was torn by the desire to relieve himself of a burden
which was on his mind.
On the Saturday his condition remained the same; he was conscious but
motionless, helpless, and, above all, speechless. So convinced was she
that if he could only speak, if only some means could be found by
which he could convey his thoughts to her, that he would be more at
his ease, that she appealed to Dr. Banyard.
"Can nothing be done to restore to him the power of speech, if only
for a few minutes?"
"I believe that I am doing all that medicine can do; you heard Sir
Masterman say that he could do no more."
"Can you think of no way in which he can convey to us his meaning?
I believe that he has something which he wishes very much to
say--something on his mind; and that if he could only say it--get it
off his mind--he would at least be happier."
The doctor eyed her shrewdly.
"Have you any notion what it is?"
"Not the slightest. If I had I might prompt him, and get at it that
way. But my father has never been very communicative with me; I know
nothing of his private affairs--absolutely nothing; I only know that
he is my father."
"Have you any other relations?"
"So far as I know only an aunt, his sister. I have never seen her--I
don't think they have been on good terms; I don't know her address; I
believe she lives abroad."
"Had your mother no relations?"
"I cannot tell you; I know nothing of my mother--she died when I was
born. I have been wondering if what he wishes to say is that, if--if
the worst comes, he would like to be buried in her grave. I don't know
where her grave is; he has never spoken of her to me."
The doctor continued to eye her intently. He had a clever face, with a
whimsical mouth, which seemed to be a little on one side; his eyes
were deep-set, and were surrounded by a thick thatch of iron-grey
hair.
"How old are you?"
"I shall be twenty in June."
"That's a ripe age."
She sighed.
"I feel as if I were a hundred."
"You don't look it; however, that's by the way. At such a time as
this, Miss Lindsay, you ought not to be alone in this great house,
with all the weight upon your shoulders."
"I'm not alone; Elaine is with me."
"Yes; and she--is even older than you."
"Elaine is twenty-four."
"I don't doubt it. If you're a hundred I should say that she is a
thousand."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing." But she felt that he had meant something; she wondered
what. He went on. "What I intended to remark was that I think you
ought to have some one with you who would give proper attention to
your interests. As it is, you are practically at the mercy of a lot of
servants and--and others. Hasn't your father an old friend, in whom
you yourself have confidence--a business friend? By the way, who is
his man of business--his lawyer?"
She shook her head.
"If father has any friends I don't know them. He has never been very
sociable with anybody about here; I can't say what old acquaintances
he may have had elsewhere. As you are probably aware, he was
frequently away."
"Did you never go with him?"
"Never--never once. I have never been with my father anywhere out of
this immediate neighbourhood, except when I first went to school, when
he escorted me."
"But you always knew where he was?"
"Sometimes; not always."
"Had he an address in town?"
"Only his club, so far as I know."
"Which was his club?"
"The Carlton."
"That sounds good enough. Did you use to write to him there?"
"Not often; he only liked me to write to him when I had something of
importance to say. He cared neither for reading nor for writing
letters. He once told me that there were a lot of women who seemed to
have nothing better to do than waste their own and other people's time
by scribbling a lot of nonsense, which they cut up into lengths, sent
through the post, and called letters. He hoped I should never become
one of them. I remembered what he said, and never troubled him with
one of the 'lengths' called letters if I could help it."
Both of them smiled; only the doctor's was a whimsical smile, and hers
was hardly suggestive of mirth.
"You haven't told me who his lawyer is."
"The only lawyer I ever heard him mention was Mr. Nash."
"Nash? He only employed him in little local jobs; in no sense was he
his man of business; I've reasons for knowing that his opinion of
Herbert Nash's legal ability is not an unduly high one."
As before, Nora shook her head.
"He is the only lawyer I ever heard papa mention."
"But, my dear Miss Lindsay, your father is a man of affairs--of
wealth; he lives here at the rate of I don't know how many thousand
pounds a year, and has never owed a man a penny; you must know
something of his affairs."
"All I know is that he has always given me all the money I wanted, and
not seldom more than I wanted; I have never had to ask him for any;
but beyond that I know nothing."
When Dr. Banyard got home he said to his wife--
"Helen, if I had to define a male criminal lunatic, I am inclined to
think that I should say it was a man who brought up his women-folk in
the lap of luxury without giving them the faintest inkling as to where
the wherewithal to pay for that luxury came from."
His wife said mischievously--
"It is at least something for women-folk, as you so gracefully
describe the salt of the earth, to be brought up in the lap of luxury;
please remember that, sir. And pray what prompts this last
illustration of the wisdom of the modern Solomon?"
"That man Lindsay; you know how he's been a mystery to all the
country-side; the hints which have been dropped; the guesses which
have been made; the clues which the curious have followed, ending in
nothing; the positive libels which have been uttered. It turns out
that he's as much a mystery to his own daughter as he is to anybody
else; I've just had it from her own lips. The man lies dying, leaving
her in complete ignorance of everything she ought to know--at the
mercy, not impossibly, of those who do know. Just as God is calling
him home he wants to tell her; I can see it in his eyes, and so can
she; but he is dumb. Unless a miracle is worked he'll die silent,
longing to tell her what he ought to have told her years ago."