UNTO THE LIGHT
When Nora entered she looked from one man to the other, as if she
wondered by which of them her presence was desired. She declined the
chair which Mr. Hooper offered. On his persisting in his request to
her to be seated she observed, with the naive mixture of humility and
pride which became her so well, that she would rather not sit, as she
was engaged in copying a passage which was more than usually involved,
and to which she would like to return as soon as she could. Mr.
Hooper, at her back, directed a glance at Mr. Clifford, of which, had
she intercepted it, she would probably have required a prompt
explanation.
"I think, Miss Lindsay," he said, "that it is possible that you will
do no more copying for me, and that the passage of which you speak may
remain unfinished."
She turned quickly round to him, alarm on her face.
"Mr. Hooper! Why do you say that? What have I done?"
"Everything you have done, Miss Lindsay, you have done excellently; if
you will permit me to ask you a few questions, you will understand why
I say it. Please sit down."
"Thank you; I much prefer to stand."
"You, of course, are at liberty to please yourself; but, in that case,
Mr. Clifford and I must also continue to stand, and that may be
inconvenient." Thereupon she subsided on to the chair which he had
placed for her, glancing as she did so at the two men in front of her
as if she suspected them of having conspired together to compel her to
seat herself against her will. Mr. Hooper assumed an air which was
almost judicial. "I beg you to believe, Miss Lindsay, that in putting
to you the questions I am about to put I am actuated only by
considerations of your own interests. If they seem at all impertinent,
I assure you that it is in appearance only; as, if you will answer
them frankly, you will immediately perceive. To begin with, how many
children had your father beside yourself?"
It is possible that she looked as surprised as she felt; she could
hardly have felt more surprised than she looked. She hesitated; then
briefly answered--
"None."
"Then--pardon me if I pain you--were you not on good terms with your
father when he died?"
Her eyes opened wider; it seemed that her amazement grew.
"Of course I was; what do you mean? If you had ever known my father
you wouldn't have dreamt of asking such a--such a silly question; I
don't wish to be rude, but you wouldn't. My father never said an angry
word to me in the whole of his life."
"But, in that case, to whom did he leave his money?"
"To me."
"To you?"
"He left everything he had in the world to me absolutely; I don't know
quite what it means, but I know that's what they said, absolutely."
"Then now it's my turn not to understand you. Your father was an
immensely wealthy man. If you are his heiress, how is it I have the
honour, and happiness, of seeing you here, in receipt of a modest
weekly salary?"
"Every one thought papa was rich; I did; I understood him to tell me
himself that he was; but it seemed, after all, that he wasn't. Indeed,
as soon as he was dead, some man said he owed him a great deal of
money, for bills."
"Bills!"
The interruption came from Clifford.
"I don't know what kind of bills they were; but I know they were bills
of some kind, because I was told so; then they came and sold
everything to get money to pay the bills, and I was left with
nothing."
The two men eyed each other as if the significance of what the girl
said surpassed their comprehension. Mr. Clifford continued his
interposition.
"Miss Lindsay, Mr. Hooper has told you my name; it is Clifford--Frank
Clifford. I believe I knew your father for many years, and am indebted
to him for many kindnesses. Did he never mention my name to you?"
"Clifford? No, I don't remember his ever having done so."
"I saw your portrait in his rooms yesterday, and when I saw you this
morning I recognized you at once."
"His rooms? What rooms?"
"His rooms in town."
"I didn't know he had any; we couldn't find out that he had an address
in town."
"You couldn't find out that he had an address in town? I don't
understand; there is something very strange here. Do you know a Mr.
Nash?"
"Herbert Nash? He acted as my solicitor after my father was dead."
"Your solicitor, or your father's?"
"Mine. He went through my father's papers with a friend, and it was he
who discovered that he had left no money."
"This is stranger and stranger. How many executors did your father
appoint?"
"Executors?"
"How many executors did your father appoint in his will?"
"I never heard that he appointed any."
"Then did you ever hear of a Mr. Morgan?"
"Morgan? Stephen Morgan? Stephen Morgan was our butler at Cloverlea."
Mr. Clifford gave what seemed like a gasp of astonishment.
"Your butler! Miss Lindsay, would you mind describing your butler?"
She did it so minutely that he identified his visitor of yesterday
beyond a doubt. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Morgan, Miss
Lindsay; but he did not introduce himself as your father's butler.
Would it be asking too much to ask you to describe your father?"
"I can do better than that. He never would be photographed by a
professional, but I managed to snap him two or three times with my own
camera; I have a print of the very last snapshot I took of him here.
It's not much as a photograph, but it's not a bad likeness." She took
an old-fashioned gold locket from the bosom of her dress, and, opening
it, held it out for Mr. Clifford to see. On one side was the portrait
of her father; on the other was the portrait of some one else. "That,"
she explained, rather lamely, "is a portrait of--of some one I used to
know."
"This," declared Mr. Clifford, looking at the likeness on the other
side, "is the portrait of the man I have known for many years as
Joseph Oldfield."
"As who? That's my father!"
"Do you not know he had a business in town?"
"I did not know he had a business anywhere."
"He had; he carried on that business under a pseudonym; I have always
known him as Joseph Oldfield; for the first time yesterday I heard the
name of Donald Lindsay. It seems to have been his wish that his
commercial and his private lives should be wholly distinct,
overlapping at no point; he appears to have succeeded in carrying out
that wish almost too well."
"How--how extraordinary; and yet I'm not surprised. That is what he
has been trying to tell me all the time."
"All what time?"
There was something in her tone and manner which struck the two men as
curious; a sort of exaltation.
"He has been coming to me, night after night, in my dreams, always in
such trouble; always trying so hard to tell me something; but he never
could. Now I know what it was. If he comes again he'll understand that
I know, and his trouble will have gone. You mustn't laugh at me; in my
dreams his coming has been so real." Judging from their faces neither
of her hearers was inclined for laughter. She turned to Mr. Clifford.
"What was my father's business?"
"He was the proprietor of Peter Piper's Popular Pills, of which you
have probably heard."
"Why"--her face was illumined by a smile--"he always had a stock of
them in the house; it was a standing joke. He used to give a box to
nearly every one who came, declaring that they were a simple, safe
medicine for what he called 'common complaints.'"
Mr. Clifford bestowed on Mr. Hooper what might be described as a glare
of triumph.
"So they are, Miss Lindsay; it is only ignorant people who doubt it.
No one was in a better position to know than your father was, and he
was their sole proprietor. If he left you all his property, then I am
fortunate in being the first to tell you that, of my own knowledge,
you are the owner of at least a million."
"A million! Mr. Clifford! Then--then----"
She had the locket still open, and was looking at the likeness which
she had described as the portrait of some one she used to know; as she
looked her sentence came to a premature end, and her face was dyed
with blushes. Mr. Clifford went on, a little heatedly.
"You have been badly used, Miss Lindsay; monstrously used; and by
those who should have made it their first aim to use you well."
Her radiant face contrasted oddly with his warmth.
"What does it matter? It has done me no harm. All the while I've felt
that God was leading me through the darkness unto the light; and
that's what He has done. So see how much I have to thank Him for."
The door was opened by Mr. Gibb.
"Two gentlemen and a lady to see Mr. Frank Clifford."
Without waiting for further announcement the visitors came in; in
front Robert Spencer; behind him Herbert Nash, with Elaine at his
side. When the lovers saw each other, each stood gazing as if fearful
that the other was some entrancing vision which might resolve itself
into air and vanish. Both cried, as if it was the most delightful and
wonderful thing in the world that it should be so--
"You!"
They advanced, and only just in the nick of time remembered that there
were others there; they could not have got closer and kept out of each
other's arms. Mr. Spencer spoke as if in an ecstasy.
"You queen of dear women, I've ransacked all the stray corners of the
world for you! Where have you been hiding?"
"Why," she replied, "I've been trying to earn my living."
"My Lady Quixote! all the while you've been a millionaire!"
"So Mr. Clifford has just told me. I haven't had time to realize it
yet; but I think I'm glad."
"You only think?"
"I'm sure." She added--they were so close!--these words, which reached
his ear only, "For your sake!" As she whispered her face crimsoned.
Before he could answer she had moved forward. "Elaine!" When she
advanced the other shrank back. "Why, Elaine, what's the matter?"
Mr. Spencer spoke.
"Miss Harding is now Mrs. Nash. If you will go with her into the next
room I think you will find that she has something which she wishes to
say to you."
So Nora went with Elaine into the adjoining chamber. The four men,
left to themselves, began, with each other's aid, to piece together,
into a comprehensible whole, the scattered parts of Donald Lindsay's
strange history. While in the little room, where she had had such
struggles with the typewriter, in the hour of her happiness, Nora had
to listen to a tale of sin; and even while she listened, her one
thought was how to comfort the sinner, to lead her, through the
darkness, unto the light.