THE OPEN WINDOW
On the Sunday Donald Lindsay died, in the afternoon, about half-past
four; probably about the time, Dr. Banyard said, when he had first
been stricken. Although, apparently, conscious to the last, he died
speechless, without being able to do anything to relieve himself of
the burden which lay upon his mind; a burden which, it seemed not
improbable, had been the first cause of the fate which had so suddenly
overtaken him. To Nora the blow was, of course, a bad one; when she
realized that her father was dead it seemed as if all the light had
gone out of the world for her. And yet, in the nature of things, it
was impossible that she should feel for him the affection which
sometimes associates the parent with the child. He himself had scoffed
at love; sentiment, he had repeatedly told her, was the thing in life
which was to be most avoided; he had illustrated his meaning in his
own practice. He had never been unkind, but he had certainly never
been tender; so far as she was aware he had never kissed her in his
life; on those rare occasions on which she had ventured to kiss him he
had brushed her aside as if she had been guilty of some folly. His
attitude towards her was one of more or less genial indifference. He
had provided her with a beautiful home; he had bought Cloverlea, as he
was careful to inform her, for her, and in it he left her very much
alone. He supplied her liberally with money, and there he seemed to
think his duty towards her ended. She was welcome to have any
companions she chose; he asked no questions about her comings and her
goings; took no sort of interest in the young women of her own age
whom, at rare intervals, she induced to stay with her. He made no
attempt whatever to find for her a place in local, or any other,
society; yet, unaided, she began, by degrees, to occupy a somewhat
prominent place on the local horizon.
Living in one of the finest places in the neighbourhood, with horses
and carriages at her disposal, and even, latterly, motor cars;
possessed of a sufficiency of ready money, it was hardly likely that
she should remain unnoticed; her father's peculiarities threw her, if
anything, into bolder relief. There was not a house for miles in which
she was not a welcome visitor, and for this she had, largely, to thank
herself. Not only was she good to look at, she was good to be with;
she had that indefinable thing, charm. Not all the pens which ever
wrote could make clear to Us the secret of a young girl's charm.
Whilst she was still the mistress of Cloverlea her father seemed to be
the only living creature who remained impervious to its magic
influence; afterwards--that influence waned. On the Sunday on which
her father died she was left alone with her grief; but on the Monday
morning Dr. Banyard called and insisted on her seeing him. His manner,
while it was brusque, was sympathetic.
"Now, my dear young lady," he began, almost as soon as she was in the
room, "what you have first of all to remember is that you, at any
rate, are still alive, and likely, in all human probability, to remain
so for some considerable time to come; your first duty therefore,
towards yourself, and towards your father, is to see that your
interests are properly safeguarded."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Then I will endeavour to make myself clear. I believe you are engaged
to be married."
"You know I am."
"Where, at the present moment, is Mr. Spencer?"
"He is on his way home from Cairo, where he has been staying with his
aunt, Lady Jane Carruthers, who is ill."
"Does he know what has happened?"
"I don't quite know where he is. When he last wrote he told me that he
was going to take what he called an 'after-cure' in Italy "--she
smiled, as if at some thought of her own--"but he entered into no
particulars, and until I hear from him again I don't quite know where
he's to be found; all I do know is that he's to be home before the
first of May."
"As things stand, that's some distance ahead. I believe that his
father and mother, the Earl and Countess, are also absent." She
nodded. "You say you don't know who was your father's man of business;
then who is there to whom you feel yourself entitled to turn for the
kind of assistance of which you stand in such imperative need, at
once; certainly in the course of to-day?"
"There's Elaine."
"You mean Miss Harding?" It was his turn to smile. "I'm afraid she's
not the kind of person I'm thinking of; though I do not for a moment
doubt her cleverness. She suffers from one disqualification; she's not
a man. What you want is a dependable, and thoroughly capable lawyer."
"There's Mr. Nash."
"Mr. Nash is, again, hardly the sort of person you're in want of. To
begin with, he's too young, has too little experience; it was only the
other day he qualified--with difficulty."
"He has been qualified more than three years; he did a good many
things for papa."
"Yes, but what kind of things? Not the kind which will have to be done
for you; and I happen to know that what he did he bungled."
"I believe he's coming here to-day."
"Have you sent for him?"
"I haven't; but Elaine came into my room this morning and asked if she
should, and I believe she has."
"Miss Harding sent for him?" The doctor eyed her intently for a
moment; then, turning, he went to the window and looked out; presently
he spoke to her from there. "And do you propose to give Herbert Nash
the run of your father's papers?"
"I don't know what I propose to do; I haven't thought about it at all;
I want him to do what he can to help me; I don't feel as if I could do
very much to help myself."
"Is it any use my saying that I can give you the name of a well-known
firm of family lawyers; and that you have only to send them a wire,
and before the day is over you'll have one of the best men in
England--in every sense--on the premises, making your interests his
own?"
"Elaine seemed to think that Mr. Nash has only to glance through some
of my father's papers to discover who my father's man of business
really was, and that then all we shall have to do will be to
communicate with him."
"I see; there's something in that--Miss Harding has her wits about
her. Do you know what time Mr. Nash is coming?"
"I don't--Elaine sent the message, if one was sent, and of that I'm
not certain; anyhow I don't know what arrangements she has made."
"Would you mind inquiring?"
"I'll ask her to come here, then you can inquire yourself."
The bell was rung, and presently Miss Harding appeared. She was short
and slight; with dark hair, big dark eyes, a dainty little mouth, and
very red lips. She made at once for Nora, ignoring the doctor, who was
still standing by the window.
"They tell me that you want me."
"It isn't I, it's Dr. Banyard; he wants to know if you have sent to
Mr. Nash; and, if so, at what time he's coming."
Miss Harding opened her big eyes wider, which was a trick she had.
"Dr. Banyard wants to know?--why does Dr. Banyard want to know?"
"That I cannot tell you; you had better ask him; here he is. Is Mr.
Nash coming?"
"Of course he's coming, but he doesn't seem to know quite when; it
seems he has some sort of case on at the police court."
"I know; he's defending that young scoundrel, Gus Peters, who's been
robbing his master."
This was the doctor; Miss Harding turned to him.
"Is the gentleman you call Gus Peters a scoundrel?"
"Isn't a fellow who robs his master a scoundrel?"
"Has it been proved that he robbed his master?"
"It's a matter of common notoriety."
"Common notoriety is not infrequently a liar. However, that's not the
point; I suppose Mr. Nash will do his duty to his client in any case,
and he'll come here as soon as he's done it."
"I'd wait for him if I could, but I have to go my round; I'll look in
afterwards on the off-chance of finding him; there's something I
particularly wish to say to him. I fancy the magistrates, in spite of
Mr. Nash, will make short work of Mr. Peters."
After the doctor had gone Miss Harding said to Miss Lindsay,
"Nora, dear, don't you think that Dr. Banyard is inclined to be a
little interfering?"
"It has never struck me that he was."
"It has struck me, more than once. But then I think that G.P.s are apt
to be interfering; they hope, by having a finger in everybody's pie,
to get a plum out of each. Dr. Banyard doesn't like Mr. Nash, does
he?"
"He has never told me that he doesn't."
"Has he never breathed words to the same effect?"
"He has certainly hinted that he doesn't think much of Mr. Nash's
legal abilities; but then who does?"
"I do."
"Really, Elaine?"
"Really, Nora. I believe that if he's truly interested in a person he
can do as much for that person as anybody else--perhaps more."
"Possibly; but is he ever truly interested in anybody but himself?"
Miss Harding was silent for an instant; then she smiled rather oddly.
"Entirely between ourselves, Nora, that's what I wonder."
She had cause to.
It happened on the Thursday evening on which Mr. Lindsay was taken
ill, that Elaine Harding was left with nothing to do, and no one to do
it with. It is true that, had she insisted, she might have made
herself of use in some way; but, as she herself admitted, she was no
good when there was illness about. Indeed, she was one of those
persons--though this she kept to herself--who shrunk from suffering in
any form with a sort of instinctive physical repugnance. She only
needed half-a-hint to the effect that her services were not required,
and she was ready to give the sick-room as wide a berth as any one
could possibly require. To be plain, she was disposed to regard Mr.
Lindsay's attack almost as if it had been an injury to herself. Had
she been perfectly free, she would have packed up her boxes and left
the house within the hour; it would have been better for her if she
had. The idea of having to remain under the same roof with a man who
was suffering from an apoplectic stroke was horrid; but, at the same
time, there were reasons, of divers sorts, why she should not flee
from the dearest friend she had in the world at the first sign of
trouble.
Instead of packing up her boxes she dined alone, off food which had
been ruined by being kept waiting. That was another grievance. She did
like good food, perfectly cooked. She was conscious that the servants
were regarding her askance, as if they were surprised that she should
dine at all; that also was annoying. When she rose from table she was
in quite a bad temper--what Mr. Lindsay meant by falling ill when she
was in the house she could not imagine. The solitude of the empty
drawing-room was appalling. The French window still stood open; better
the solitude of the grounds than that great bare chamber. She went out
on to the terrace. It was a lovely night, warmer than many nights in
June. There was not a cloud in the sky. A moon, almost at the full,
lighted the world with her silver glory. She looked about her.
Suddenly she perceived that a light was shining out upon the terrace
from what was evidently an uncurtained window. She remembered; no
doubt it was the lamp in Mr. Lindsay's study, the lamp which Morgan
had lit; in that case the window must still be open. She went to see;
her slight form moved along the terrace with something stealthy in its
movements, as if she was ashamed of what she was doing. She reached
the study; it was as she supposed; the lamp was lit, the window was
open, the room was empty. She was seized by what she would afterwards
have described as a sudden access of curiosity. She glanced over her
shoulder, to left and right; there was no one in sight; not a sound.
She put her dainty head inside the window, to indulge herself with
just one peep; after all, there is very little harm in innocent
peeping; then she passed into the room.