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.
In the evening she took stock of such possessions as, in any case, she
might be entitled to call her own. She had it strongly in her mind
that she and Elaine might soon be parted; just how close the hour of
parting was she could not tell, but she felt that, whenever it came,
it would be as well that it should find her ready. There had been, she
knew, a meeting of the creditors yesterday; exactly what course they
had decided to pursue she had not learnt; and, again, that troubled
her; she felt that either Dr. Banyard or Mr. Nash might have let her
have some sort of intimation. But, anyhow, from what she had gathered
it seemed likely that before long there would be strangers at
Cloverlea; when they came she must go, practically on the instant.
Even if their coming was postponed it appeared to her that she must
go. It cost money to keep up Cloverlea; since the little money which
her father had left belonged to the creditors, when she came to
consider the matter calmly, it seemed to her that she had no real
right to remain another hour. Her continued stay in that huge house
involved the expenditure of money to which it had not yet been shown
that she had any claim; even if money enough had been discovered to
keep it going for another week, which she doubted.
No; it seemed to her, from whatever point of view she regarded the
position, that the hour was close at hand for the parting of the ways;
and that it behoved her to be ready for it when it came.