NORA GOES
When Elaine brought back her head into the room, the window was
closed, Mr. Nash had vanished; the young lady was in such a state of
palpitation, that for some seconds she was incapable of continuing the
operation of packing, conscious though she was of how time was
pressing. Half-an-hour is not long. She was not yet fully dressed; it
seemed that now she was to dress to meet her lover, to elope with him;
if she had known that before she would have arrayed herself in some
quite different garments. There was no time to change now; it was out
of the question. Really, there was not time even to finish packing
properly; her things would have to be squashed in anyhow; if she could
get them in at all she would have to be content. There was one
comfort, she would buy herself an entirely new outfit when she had
once got clear away. Herbert need not think--no one need think--that
she was going to do without a trousseau; she was not. She was going to
have a proper trousseau; a complete trousseau. Only it seemed that in
her case the various articles would have to be purchased after
marriage instead of before; but she would have them.
While such thoughts chased themselves through her excited little head,
she returned to the process of packing with still greater zeal than
before. Cherished garments received unceremonious treatment; if they
could have felt they would have wondered why their mistress was using
them as she had never done before. Rolled up anyhow; squeezed in
anywhere; no regard paid to frills or dainty trimmings; plainly
Elaine's one and only desire was to get her things in somewhere,
somehow. Yet as if it was not enough to have to pack against time, she
was not allowed to pack in peace; she was doomed to interruption. Just
as the first box seemed full as it could hold, and she was wondering
if her weight would be enough to induce the hasp to meet the lock,
there came a tapping at the bedroom door. The sound was to her an
occasion of irritation; her voice suggested it.
"Now who's that?"
"It is I."
It was a voice she knew--at that moment it seemed to her--too well. So
entirely was this young woman a creature of mood that there was only
room in her for one mood at a time, and while that possessed her she
forgot everything else; before she heard that voice she had forgotten
Nora. And it was Nora who stood on the other side of the door.
Elaine's selfish little soul shook with fear when the sound of the
voice without recalled her friend's existence to her recollection.
"What am I to do?" was the question which instantly sprang up within
her. She could scarcely put her off with an excuse now. Nora was
probably at her wit's end; all the seas of trouble had been opened on
her unprotected head. If ever there was a moment in which she was in
need of friendly service it was this; unless some one held out to her
a helping hand she might sink in the deep waters, never to rise again.
In the box which she had just been packing was the money which Elaine
had "found" on the study table; that huge sum which, of course, was
Nora's. Here was a chance to show that, after all, she was not
altogether the worthless wretch she had seemed to be. Should she?
No, she told herself, Herbert would not like it; then there was
Morgan, and the trousseau, and the honeymoon; if she kept all the
money she might have the kind of honeymoon of which she had so often
dreamed; and--there were other things. All the uses she might have for
the money crowded into her brain, treading on each other's heels. She
dropped the lid and ran to the door.
"I'm awfully sorry, Nora, to keep you waiting, but----" She stopped,
to stare. "Why, you've got your hat on; where are you going?"
Nora was dressed for travelling. It was Elaine's cue to be surprised
at everything; she meant to be so surprised that the mere force of her
surprise should drive all other things clean out of her. Nora came
into the room.
"I see you are packing."
For a second Elaine was slightly embarrassed, but she quickly got over
that.
"Yes, I've had a letter from papa this morning."
"A letter from your father?"
The calm eyes looked Elaine straight in the face. The girl turned
away; the glib tongue began to reel off lies.
"Just now--I should think I ought to have had it yesterday; I don't
know why I only had it to-day. He wants me to come home; of course he
feels I'm frightfully in the way; and then it seems Polly has the
scarlet fever, and Jennie looks as if she were sickening for it, and
there are the other children, and papa has no one to help him--he
can't afford a nurse; so you see I must go; the poor man writes as if
he were half distracted."
"Of course you must go; and, perhaps, in a way it's as well you must,
though I'm so sorry to hear about Polly and Jennie; but I'm afraid
that in any case I should have had to ask you to go."
"Nora! Am I so much in the way as that?"
"It is not only you who are in the way; we both of us are, both you
and me. Mr. Guldenheim and his friends have come, and, in consequence,
I also am leaving Cloverlea."
"Nora! What do you mean?"
Nothing could have been more eloquent than the amazement on Elaine's
face.
"You knew that they were going to sell everything to pay what it
appears were my father's debts; well, it's come a little sooner than I
expected, that's all."
"But where will you go? What will you do?"
"Something; don't fear. 'God's in His heaven, all's well with the
world.' I don't doubt there's a place in it somewhere for me."
"Oh, Nora, if I could only take you home with me! But it's such a poor
place, and so small; and now it's like a hospital, with all the
children ill of that dreadful fever, and papa writing that he's nearly
penniless; what do you think yourself?"
It was rather a neat way of passing on the responsibility.
"I think it's out of the question. With that poor father of yours
already nearly borne down beneath his troubles, do you think I'd add
to them? What I'm wondering is if you've enough money to take you
home."
"Papa hasn't sent me any--I'm afraid he's none to send; but I've been
reckoning--I've just enough, with a squeeze; but then I'm used to
squeezing. Nora, I do hope you've plenty of money."
"I've enough to go on with. Can I help you with your packing?"
"The idea! As if I'd let you, you poor dear!"
"Then, Elaine, if you won't mind very much----"
Nora stopped, as if at a loss to find words with which to clothe her
thoughts. Miss Harding was gushing.
"I shan't mind anything, my darling. What is it?"
"It--it's only, if you won't think me very unkind, that I'd--I'd like
to catch a train which starts almost at once."
She was thinking, perhaps, of Dr. Banyard's promise to send his wife
to talk to her, and desired to avoid that talking. Miss Harding leapt
at the hint.
"And you want to get away immediately? And do you think I'd wish to
stop you from doing anything you want to do?--you sweet! Good-bye,
Nora, my darling! God bless you! I hope everything will turn out all
right yet; I feel sure it will; it's bound to. And mind you write!"
"I will--when I am settled."
"And what address will find you?"
"I'll let you know that also, when I'm settled."
So they parted, with fond embraces, many kisses, words of endearment,
tears in their eyes. Nora's heart was very full, and Elaine felt hers
ought to be. So soon as Nora had left the room Elaine banged her foot
against the floor; clapped her hands together with such violence that
she actually stung her tender palms, and cried--
"What a little beast I am! what a little beast!"
Then, instantly, she resumed her packing, remembering that the trap
was coming in less than half-an-hour, but not with quite so much zest
as before. There was a vague consciousness in her somewhere that her
conduct had not been--and still was not--altogether without reproach.
When Nora got down-stairs she found the hall door open, a dog-cart
without, a footman keeping guard over the single trunk which he had
brought from her room, and Morgan, as it were, keeping watch and ward
over him; otherwise the hall was deserted. Nora recognized the fact
with something like a pang. She knew then that she had hoped that at
least some of the servants would have been gathered together to wish
her God-speed; then she told herself, with the quick philosophy which
was eminently hers, that it did not matter after all.
Morgan greeted her with a question.
"Is there any more luggage?"
"No; none."
"What directions are there as to what is to be done with the contents
of your own rooms--your two rooms, bedroom and boudoir? Perhaps I may
be allowed to remark, Miss Lindsay, that I believe you've a right to
whatever is in your own rooms; no one's a right to touch anything
that's in them except you."
"Thank you, Morgan; there are no directions. By the bye, if you like I
will write you two or three lines, before I go, which you will be able
to use as a reference when you are applying for another situation. I
don't wish you to suffer by what has happened."
"Thank you, Miss Lindsay, you are very good; but I don't propose to
seek another situation. I am giving up service. I trust, Miss Lindsay,
that in the future everything will turn out as you would like it to."
"Thank you, Morgan, I hope it will. Say goodbye to the others for me,
and say I wish them all well."
The butler inclined his head with his most deferential air. The trunk
had been lifted into its place at the back of the cart, the footman
had ascended to the driver's seat, and Nora was climbing up to his
side, when a seedy-looking man came shambling along the drive,
apparently in a state of some excitement.
"Here, what's all this!" he cried. "This won't do, you know."
"What won't do?" inquired the footman.
"What you're doing of--that won't do. I'm in charge of the stable, and
that horse and cart have been took out of it; can't have that;
nothing's to be took off the premises without the governor's express
permission."
"Isn't it? We'll see about that; and so will you see if you don't
watch out."
The footman evinced an inclination to use his whip with some degree of
freedom. Nora laid a restraining hand upon his arm. She addressed the
seedy-looking man.
"The dog-cart is only going to drive me to the station; it will be
returned to the stable, uninjured, probably in less than half-an-hour.
You need fear nothing."
There she was mistaken; the man was in imminent peril of being run
over. The footman flicked the mare on the shoulder, she gave a
startled bound, then went dashing down the drive; if the fellow had
not sprung nimbly aside both the mare and the cart might have gone
right over him.
And that was how Nora left Cloverlea.
While the vehicle was still in sight Mr. Morgan addressed a few
outspoken remarks to the seedy-looking man on his own account.
"You're a fool, my lad, that's what you are; you don't know when
you're well off. You and your governor have no more right to be where
you are than you have to be in the moon. That young lady's been badly
advised. If she'd had your governor, and his friends, thrown out of
the house, and dragged down the drive, and deposited in the high
road--your governor, for one, wouldn't have wanted much dragging; he
knows enough to get in out of the rain--he'd have taken to his heels
as fast as ever he could, to save himself from something worse. As for
your laying your hand upon her horse, and her cart--because they are
hers, and hers only--if she'd had you locked up you'd have got six
months, and serve you right. I call you a low down thief, because
that's exactly what you are; and I call your governor a low down
thief, because that's exactly what he is; and if I have an opportunity
so I'll tell him. Taking rascally advantage of a fatherless girl. Poor
young lady! it goes to my heart to see the way she's being put upon."
Mr. Morgan ascended the steps with an air of virtuous indignation
which caused the other to stare at him open-mouthed, as if an assault
from that quarter was the last thing he had expected.
Before many minutes had passed a trap drew up before the hall door,
from which Mrs. Banyard alighted. She was received by Morgan; her air
was a trifle imperious; she had come, as her husband had promised she
should come, to talk to Nora.
"Where is Miss Lindsay? I wish to see her; take me to her at once."
The butler was affable, but unsatisfactory.
"I am afraid I cannot do that."
"What do you mean? Why can't you? Has she given instructions that she
doesn't wish to see me?"
"Miss Lindsay has gone."
"Gone! Gone where?"
"I apprehend that Miss Lindsay has left Cloverlea for ever."
"You apprehend! Man, you're dreaming! How long is it since she has
been gone?"
She glanced towards the trap, as if she meditated jumping into it, and
starting in instant pursuit; but if she entertained such an idea
Morgan's answer put an end to it.
"Possibly an hour, possibly not quite so much; I cannot say exactly
when she started."
He must have been aware that she had not been gone ten minutes;
possibly he wished to spare his late mistress the indignity of being
chased--even by a friend.
"Where do you say she's gone?"
"The directions were to drive her to the station."
"To the station? Then what address has she left?"
"None with me."
"She must have left an address with some one."
"Not with any member of the household."
"But where are her letters to be forwarded?"
"That I cannot say."
"Man! why did you let her go?" Probably this time the expression of
surprise which was on Morgan's face was genuine. "I'm afraid I don't
understand."
"Oh-h-h!"
She clenched her fists, and, so to speak, she ground her teeth; she
looked as if she would have liked to have beaten the butler; only just
then another dog-cart drew up, from which the Hon. Robert Spencer
descended. He hailed the butler.
"Morgan, I want to speak to Miss Lindsay; where is she? I'll show
myself in." Then he saw the doctor's wife. "Oh, Mrs. Banyard, how are
you? But I needn't ask, you're looking so well." He returned to the
butler. "Morgan, where is Miss Lindsay?"
"Miss Lindsay, sir, has gone."
Mr. Spencer did what Mrs. Banyard had done--he echoed the butler.
"Gone! Gone where?"
Mrs. Banyard took it on herself to explain.
"The headstrong girl has gone to the station, and probably to London,
and as she's left no address she's gone goodness only knows where. But
I know--I understand perfectly well. She's got some Quixotic notion
into her head, and because she's got it she's bent on suffering
martyrdom, and she will too, if somebody doesn't stop her; though who
for, or what for, nobody knows."
Mr. Spencer laughed, as if he thought the doctor's wife was joking;
but he seemed to do it with an effort.
"If she's gone we'll find her, wherever she's gone; don't let your
imagination paint any very frightful pictures, Mrs. Banyard. I'll
undertake to find her, and save her from the martyrdom at which you
hint--well, I'll be on the safe side, and say within four-and-twenty
hours."
But he was undertaking more than he was able to perform.