'SO EARLY IN THE MORNING'
So she took stock of such things as, whatever befell, she felt that
she would have a right to take away with her from Cloverlea; it seemed
to her that, since God had opened her eyes to her actual situation, He
would forgive her for undertaking, on the Sabbath evening, what He had
shown her was a work of necessity. A pathetic business that
stocktaking was, and a queer one, and not a very heavy one either.
She began with the money. She concluded that such cash as her father
had given her for her own separate and private use she might still
call her own, and use as her own. Had she been dealing with a sum of
any magnitude she would have hesitated; for this young woman was a Don
Quixote in petticoats, and would rather starve than eat food which she
even fancied belonged to others; but she was not dealing with a sum of
any magnitude. Her father had always made her a generous allowance, of
which she had always made a generous use; regarding herself as, in a
sense, her father's almoner, she used far the larger part of it in
works of charity. Since she left school it had been his custom to give
her, four times a year, a sum of one hundred and twenty-five pounds,
always in gold. It had been one of his peculiarities that he had never
given her either cheques or bank-notes, but always sovereigns. One of
the quarterly sums had always been handed to her during the first week
in April; she had been expecting it when her father had been taken
ill. As a matter of fact, it was her hundred and twenty-five
sovereigns, plus two more, which had formed that little heap of gold
which was on the study table when Elaine Harding first adventured
through the window. So, as that little heap had never found its
way to her, all she actually possessed was what was left from last
quarter--and the first three months of the year always were such
expensive months. During the winter there was apt to be so much want
and suffering; sometimes she found it hard to make both ends meet,
even though she spent scarcely anything on herself at all. However,
that winter quarter there had been something over; that something
represented her entire fortune, nearly nine pounds; to be exact, eight
pounds fourteen and eightpence. Even the most clamorous creditor might
have suffered her to go out to face the world with that. Especially as
beyond that Nora had very little of a portable nature which she
considered she would be justified in regarding as her own, except her
clothes.
Among the other things to which he had objected Donald Lindsay
included jewellery. He wore none himself; had he had his way he would
have called no man an acquaintance who did. He disliked to see
jewellery even on a woman. On an elderly woman he esteemed it bad
enough; like the cynic he was, he held that the average elderly woman
very properly felt that she was only worth the net value of what she
had on her. On a girl, to his thinking, it was impossible; if ever he
encountered, under his own roof, young women who were, as they
fancied, ornamented by products of the jeweller's art, he was apt to
make such plain-spoken comments that Nora always endeavoured to warn
her girl acquaintances to put aside their ornaments while, at any
rate, her father was about. Nora herself had only had four pieces of
jewellery in her life. One was a plain gold watch, which her father
had given her when she was at school, which she then wore attached to
a plain black ribbon; another was a gold locket, in which was her
father's portrait, which she had worn on the same black ribbon. The
other two articles had been presents from Robert Spencer--her
engagement ring, and another locket, in which was his portrait. These
she had returned to him on the previous day, together with his
letters. So that all the jewellery she now had was the gold watch and
the locket with the portrait of her father. These, she decided, came
in the same category as the eight pounds fourteen and eightpence; she
was entitled to regard them as her very own.
Her wardrobe presented difficulties. She had heaps of pretty dresses;
quantities of all sorts of pretty clothes; the puzzle was, what to
take and what to leave. She knew, from experience, that if her
garments were turned into cash they would not fetch a great deal,
however much they might previously have cost, or however little they
might have been worn; so that if she took all her clothes she was
aware that she would not be depriving her creditors of an appreciable
sum of money. It was the difficulty of selection which troubled her.
Obviously elaborate and costly evening dresses consorted ill with a
fortune of eight pounds fourteen and eightpence, which represented
both capital and income; in that sense the daintier and prettier they
were, the more undesirable they were. Yet--she loved her pretty
frocks; only a woman could understand how hard it seemed to her to
have to part from them. With them were entwined so many associations;
she wore this one on that never-to-be-forgotten night when Robert
first asked her to be his wife; that when he slipped the engagement
ring upon her finger; how pretty she had thought it! how she had
kissed it when she was alone! She blushed at the memory.
After all, those were sentimental considerations which reached back to
the life with which she had done for ever. It was quite another sort
of life which was in front of her; she must be equipped for that.
Three Or four plain, substantial dresses would be sufficient; the
rest--those triumphs of the dressmaker's art--she was not likely to
require garments of that sort again, ever. So she packed the few
clothes she thought she would require into a trunk, together with her
Bible, her writing-case, and a few odds and ends; looking round the
room, she decided that all her other things, which she had so
treasured, must remain behind. She undressed, feeling as if she was
undressing in a room peopled with ghosts, all of them memories of the
many-sided Nora of the days which were gone; then, all radiant in her
white attire, she knelt in prayer; supposing, as she poured forth all
the dear, secret things which were in her heart, that she was a woman;
but God, who heard her, knew that she was a child; and, as she prayed,
He breathed peace into her soul; so that hardly, at last, was she
between the sheets when she fell fast asleep.
And in her sleep she dreamed the dream which she had dreamed before;
of her father, stealing timidly into her room, filled with a great
longing to tell her something, which he would have given much that she
should know, yet speechless. And to him the knowledge that he was dumb
was agony, and to her; so that she put her arms about him, and
whispered in his ear words which were meant to assist him in the
efforts he was making to say what he so yearned to tell her. But
struggle as he might, speech would not come; until, all at once, in
the exceeding bitterness of his grief he made her understand that,
because he had been still so long, and so had sinned, God would not
let him speak now; He would not forgive him for the opportunities he
had wasted. Mingling her anguish with his, she held him closer,
crying--
"God will forgive you, father! God will forgive you!" and, with her
own crying, she woke herself up, to find herself in the darkness,
alone, and the sound of her own voice in her ears.
As before, the delusion of her father's presence was so real that, at
first, she could not believe it was delusion. She put out her hands to
feel for him; when they found nothing, she whispered--
"Father!"
When none answered she got out of bed, and crossed the room, and stood
at the open door, listening for the sound of his retreating footsteps;
she had heard them so plainly when he entered. When she remembered
that he was dead, and that it must have been a dream, she began to
tremble all over; she did not dare to ask herself if this dream had
been sent to her of God; she was afraid.
Throughout the remainder of the night she lay awake. Day had scarcely
dawned when she rose and dressed. Recollections of the awe which had
obsessed her spirit were with her still. She was conscious of an
uncomfortable feeling that something unusual was about to happen. So
soon as she was dressed she left her own room and went to the bedroom
which had been her father's. As she crossed its threshold she had an
odd sensation of having come again into his presence. Impelled by she
knew not what motive of curiosity, she examined methodically all that
the room contained, opening drawers and wardrobes, going through their
contents. It seemed to her that they were emptier than they used to
be. Her father had accumulated clothes until every store-place he had
was filled to over-flowing; she had told him not long ago that if he
would keep on getting more, without ridding himself of some of those
he had, he would require another room to put them in. She knew he had
got rid of nothing, yet drawers and cupboards in bedroom and
dressing-room were nearly empty. Certainly more than three-quarters of
them were gone; what were left were scarcely more than odds and ends.
And not only clothes; as she looked about her she began to miss all
sorts of things. Both rooms had been nearly stripped of all her
father's personal belongings. By whom had they been taken? who had
given the necessary authority?
From the bedroom she passed through the still silent house to the
rooms below, and presently to her father's study. Here again was some
subtle suggestion of its late owner. He seemed to be standing by her
as she touched this and that, moving from one familiar object to
another. Nor had she been there very long before she perceived that
here also things were missing; and, in this case, they were things
which mattered. A pair of bronzes had gone from the mantel, for which
her father had paid a large sum, and which he valued highly; some
ivory antiques, fine specimens of the carver's art, which he had
brought with him from China, had also vanished; a Satsuma vase, two
costly examples of powder blue, even prints and pictures from the
walls, all kinds of curiosities, the possession of which would gladden
a collector's heart, had disappeared. Of course their absence was
capable of a natural and legitimate interpretation; they might have
been put out of sight for safer keeping. Still--they were there on
Saturday; she was sure she had noticed them when she came in a moment
for some ink; why should they have been removed during the course of
yesterday?
While she stood looking about her, feeling a little bewildered, the
door was opened suddenly, and Morgan, the butler, came hastily in. He
stared at her as if she was not at all the person he had expected to
see; indeed, he said as much.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Lindsay, I thought--" He left his sentence
unfinished, and began another. "I heard some one moving about below,
and knowing that the household was still upstairs, I thought it might
be some one who had no business here, so hurried down to see who it
was."
He made as if to withdraw, but Nora stopped him.
"Morgan, who has been interfering with my father's things?"
"I beg your pardon; I don't quite follow."
"Where's the Satsuma vase? and the powder blues? and the bronzes? and
all sorts of things?"
"Have they been removed?"
"You can see for yourself that they've been removed; who has taken
them? where are they?"
Morgan glanced round the room with, in his air, as it seemed to Nora,
almost a suggestion of amusement.
"They do seem to have been removed, don't they? As you say, all sorts
of things."
"Didn't you know they had been removed?"
"Perhaps Mr. Nash has had it done; or Dr. Banyard."
"Why should they? Besides, neither of them has been here since
Saturday; and the things were here then, because I saw them."
"Ah, if you saw them that doesn't look as if they could have had it
done, does it? But--may I ask, Miss Lindsay, how it matters?"
"How it matters, Morgan--the things are worth a great deal of money."
"Isn't that all the more reason why they shouldn't be allowed to fall
into the hands of--I don't wish to cause you pain, Miss Lindsay--of
those who are coming?"
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you know? Then, in that case, Miss Lindsay, I will have
inquiries made, and will inform you, at the earliest possible moment,
of the result."
He slipped out of the room so rapidly that she had not a chance to
question him further, leaving her more bewildered than he had found
her. What did he mean? what could he mean? She did not like to suspect
him of impertinence, or even something worse; yet--what had he
implied? That it would be just as well that these most valuable
possessions of her father should be kept out of the hand--of those who
were coming? She did not doubt that the state of affairs was known to
the household; could he have been referring to the creditors? was he
suggesting that they should be defrauded of what might go some
distance towards settling their claims, and that she should connive at
such a fraud? If he had not meant that, what had he meant? Her impulse
was to call him back, and insist upon an explanation there and then.
But she reflected that, whatever his meaning might have been, she had
made herself quite plain; his manner had shown it. His error, perhaps,
had been one of over-zeal for her service; though that was not a fault
of which she had supposed Morgan would have been likely to be guilty.
Still, that was how it might have been. If so, now he understood--that
that was not the sort of zeal which she desired. If--as, in spite of
his evasions, she thought was possible, he knew where the missing
articles were to be found--she gave him an opportunity to restore
them, in his own fashion, to their former places, no doubt, when
she returned again to the study, she would find them where they had
always been. With some vague notion of giving him such an opportunity,
there and then, she opened the French window which led into the
grounds--through which Elaine Harding had made that entry she was
never to forget, which had changed the whole face of the world for
her, as well as for others--and, hatless, passed out into the morning
air.
Although she did not know it, she was setting out on what was to be
her last walk through the familiar places she had known so long, and
loved so well.