A PHILANTHROPIST
Nora went to her bedroom. It was a pleasant room; as it was then it
was practically her own creation; it represented her ideal of what her
sleeping chamber ought to be. She had even invested it with an air of
romance, as girls, when they are at the most romantic period of their
lives, sometimes will do. There are girls who regard their bedrooms as
if they were parts of themselves. Nora was one of them; she regarded
her bedroom as if it were part of herself.
As she entered it that afternoon, it seemed to her that there was
something strange about it, as if something had come into the
atmosphere which was not present when she was in it last. It disturbed
her, until she understood that the change was in her; that she had
already unconsciously realized that this room, which had meant to her
so many things, which she supposed would be hers for ever, might,
probably, soon be hers no longer. With that feeling in her mind the
room could never again be to her what it had been before; she felt
almost as if she were a stranger in it then. Seating herself at her
writing-table, she took the Bible which lay on the little shelf in
front, and read in it, trying her hardest to concentrate her attention
on its pages; but it was not easy, even the sacred words came to her
through a mist. But when she closed the book, and went and knelt
beside the bed, pillowing her face on the coverlet, as she had done
again and again, times without number; alike in her infrequent moments
of sorrow--she knew then what pigmy things those sorrows had been! and
in her abounding hours of joy;--it was almost with a sense of terror
that it was borne in upon her what great happiness she in truth had
known--there came to her, as she continued to kneel, that peace which
she so earnestly desired; so that she arose from prayer refreshed, and
with that courage in her heart which refreshment brings. Placing
herself on the armchair which stood by the open window, resting her
arms on the sill, looking at the green world, perhaps without seeing
how green and beautiful it was, so far as she could, she thought it
all out.
And the more she thought the more clearly she apprehended that life
for her--life as she hitherto had understood it--was at an end
already, before it had scarcely begun, if the things which she had
heard were true. She must depart from Cloverlea, and all that it stood
for, and go out into a world, of which she knew nothing, to earn her
own bread; she wondered, with an odd little smile, how she was going
to set about it; if the picture was as black as it had just been
painted. But was it? In her heart of hearts she doubted. Although she
had been in such slight communion with her father; although his
attitude towards her had been, in many respects, so unfatherlike; she
believed that she had understood him, and that they had had much more
in common than he had chosen to let it appear;--it would require a
great deal to convince her that she was wrong.
She was fortified in her belief by a curious idea which, almost in
spite of herself, obsessed her more and more; that she understood him
better now that he was dead than she had done when he was living; that
she was closer to him now than she had been then; that she saw more
clearly into his very heart, and knew what manner of man he really
was; and she knew that he was not the kind of man he must have been if
the things which she had heard were true. He was incapable of
falsehood; in small things, as in large, the soul of honour; he had
not lied when he had told her that there would be enough for Robert as
well as for her. Even then she had gathered more from what he said
than his actual words; and she had understood that he had meant that
she should gather more. She believed that he had wished her to know
that in the future she would be a rich woman, and that his brief
speech had been intended to convey that meaning; she was persuaded
that he would not have meant it if it had not been true.
Yet, how was she to reconcile these things with the facts as they
appeared at present? What explanation would make them harmonize? She
did not know; she admitted to herself that she did not know; still she
was convinced that, when everything was known, her father's truth
would be established.
While Nora thought and thought; in the pretty bedchamber which had
been assigned to her as an honoured guest, Elaine Harding was
wrestling with troubles of her own, and her troubles were worse than
Nora's. In her dressing-case, under a false bottom, were nearly three
thousand pounds which did not belong to her; the dressing-case itself
had been a gift from Nora, who had shown her the false bottom with
glee, pointing out what a safe hiding-place it would be for any
special treasures she might desire to keep from prying eyes. Almost
the first use she had made of it had been to conceal the huge sum of
which she had robbed the giver.
How she hated herself for what she had done! how gladly she would have
restored the money to its place upon the dead man's table! She
understood now what it had been doing there; doubtless it was the
amount which it was his custom to pay into the bank each quarter,
which it had been his intention to deliver on the morrow. God had
intervened on the one hand, the devil on the other; she had played the
devil's game;--fool! idiot! wretch that she had been! She realized
quite clearly that that money would never bring any good to her; that
it would lie like some obscene incubus on her whole life; even if she
bought a husband with the proceeds of her stealing, how could she
expect that such a marriage would be blest? The dressing-case itself
had become a sort of monomania; not only did she keep it locked, but
she hid it in her trunk and kept that locked; even then she was
continually haunted by fears that some one was taking liberties with
her property, as she had done with that of others. Suppose, by some
mischance, the secret of that false bottom was discovered, what would
happen then? She did not dare to think. What a fool she had been to
tell Herbert Nash that tale about the legacy. It was not only a
gratuitous, it was a foolish lie; she had seen that for herself almost
as soon as it was told. He had only to make the most superficial
inquiries, the falsehood would be discovered. She felt like biting her
tongue out every time she thought of it. Her only excuse was that she
had done it on the spur of the moment, without thinking; yielding to a
temptation which was stronger than her. If only she did not love him!
with so strange and violent a love that she had been willing to do
what she had done rather than that he should not love her, rather than
that she should not win him for her own! If, now, he were to find her
out--what she had done--for his sake, what would he think of her then?
But he should not find out; she would take care that he did not find
out; rather than he should find out she would continue as she had
begun, at whatever cost to herself, and to others.
Therefore it seemed to her disordered, tortured, twisted brain, that
there was only one thing to be done, to make amends, to wipe off some
of the blackness from her sin. She had told him that her aunt had left
two thousand pounds. Well, he should have it. He had already had two
hundred; there would be fifteen hundred for a share in Mr. Dawson's
practice; the rest would be required to furnish a house, so that they
might be married at once--on that point she was resolved, that there
should be no delay about their being married; after what had happened
she would be in constant agony till she had become his wife, and, so
far, safe. He could not put his wife from him, even if he did find
out. She was inclined to make it a condition that he should marry her
before she gave him another farthing; in that way she would make sure
of him. Even then, after the whole of the two thousand had been
expended, more than a thousand pounds would still remain. It looked as
if a thousand pounds would be a fortune to Nora Lindsay; a windfall
from the skies; manna from heaven, which would at least preserve her
from starvation. Nora should have the superfluous thousand; she would
insist on it. It was true that such a sum would be most useful to a
young couple, just married; but what did that matter, in face of
Nora's pressing need? It was only too probable that they would be
occasionally pinched; Herbert had explained that his income from a
share of Mr. Dawson's practice would not, at the beginning, be large;
there were eventualities for which they ought to be prepared; but such
considerations were as nothing when one thought of Nora. She must be
considered before anything else; she who had been such a faithful,
such a generous friend; the whole of that thousand pounds should be
hers.
By the time that Miss Harding had finally decided that this should be
so she had nearly worked herself into a consciousness of virtue. When
you looked facts in the face, from one point of view, it was generous
to give away such a sum as that, especially when you remembered how
much she stood in need of it herself; beyond a doubt that was how it
would appear to Nora. Nora would appreciate her beneficence; would
realize that this was the result of being kind to her humble friend in
the days of her prosperity; the knowledge that the bread which she had
cast upon the waters had returned to her after many days ought to make
her--well, it ought to make her more contented with the measure which
had been meted out to her; Elaine felt that it ought.
What Miss Harding had to do next was to invent some plausible
explanation of how the money had come into her hands, and she was
aware that that was not easy. So hard, indeed, was it to find that
explanation that, in her despair, she nearly decided, after all, to
relinquish her philanthropic scheme. But she would not do that--she
could not do it; she had said that Nora should have the money, and she
should. The misfortune was that Nora knew so much about her; it would
be impossible to produce an aunt for her; Nora would refuse to swallow
that aunt. Being intimately acquainted with the family history, she
was pretty well aware that all the members of the Harding family would
not be able to produce a thousand pounds between them. And then--there
were other things. Only a short time ago Nora had "obliged" her, as
Elaine phrased it, with the "loan" of a ten-pound note; if Miss
Harding had had a thousand pounds laid by she would hardly have wanted
those ten sovereigns.
So elusive did that explanation seem, so persistently did it refuse to
come at her bidding, that Elaine brushed back her pretty hair with her
pretty hands with what she intended to be a frenzied gesture, which
was certainly not unbecoming, and at that moment she formed a
resolution. She would go to Nora there and then, straight off, and
approach the subject gently, trusting to the inspiration of the moment
to provide her with the lie which would sound like truth, which it was
so necessary that she should find to aid her in her beneficent
purpose. No one knew better than she did how quickly her wits could
come to her assistance at a pinch; with characteristic courage she
took it for granted that they would not fail her when she was alone
with Nora, and heart was speaking unto heart. In so doing she
overlooked one factor--the unexpected. Experience had taught her that
when she was hard pressed her wits could be relied upon, but hitherto
she had always found herself in situations for which she was more or
less prepared. The immediate future had something in store for her
which was wholly unexpected.