A Woman Perfected

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.

CHAPTER XVI

GULDENHEIM

It was hardly the morning she would have chosen for such a jaunt. A change was impending in the weather. Fickle April seemed to be of opinion that the world thereabouts had already had too fair a taste of summer, and that the time had come for quite a different sort of thing. Heavy banks of cloud scudded across the sky, blown by a cold north-easterly wind, which at times almost amounted to a gale. But Nora was heedless of the weather; her mood was in tune with the wind, wild and vagrant. The chilly breezes blew her hair this way and that, she cared nothing. Now and then a splash of rain was dashed on her uncovered head; she paid no heed. She walked rapidly, delighting in the sensation of striding swiftly through the open air, careless of all else. How far she walked, or how long, she did not know; she kept no count; one could walk some distance without quitting the grounds of Cloverlea; but even she awoke to the fact, at last, that she had better seek shelter, or else go home. The rain threatened to fall in earnest; without hat or jacket, or protection of any sort, she would soon be soaked to the skin.

She stood up under the shelter of a tree; as much to enable her to take her bearings as for anything else; and had just realized that the road ran on the other side of the hedge which was close at hand, when a trap came bowling along it, whose driver, seeing her peeping out from behind her tree, brought his horse to a sudden standstill. It was Dr. Banyard.

"Why, Miss Nora," he exclaimed, "you're early abroad. And have you joined the anti-hat brigade that you venture so far afield without one on, and in such weather? I'll give you a lift, I'll get you home now before the rain; and if I don't Sam and I between us will find something which will keep you dry. There's a gate a little further on; if you hurry I'll be there to meet you."

She shook her head; and stood closer to the tree.

"You're very good; but I'd sooner walk if you don't mind."

"Walk! but it's going to pour! and you haven't even so much as an umbrella!"

"It's not going to be so much, only a shower; I can see blue sky there."

The doctor looked in the direction to which she pointed, and, seeing the peeping blue, perceived that, probably, after all, it was only going to be an April whimper.

"You're a refractory young person; if you catch a cold don't look for sympathy from me; and, I say, I want to speak to you. In fact, I've been wanting to speak to you since Saturday; but of course the parish chooses the wrong moment to get itself ill, I haven't had a moment to call on you. I've been up practically all night, and when I do get home I expect I'll be dragged out again directly; I know them! But you will have heard from Nash."

"I have heard-nothing from Mr. Nash since I saw you last."

"No? How's that? I told him to communicate with you in case I couldn't, and he said he would."

Again she shook her head. Leaning over the side of the trap he eyed her with his shrewd grey eyes.

"In that case, here, Sam, take the reins, and drive a little way down the road; I'll call you when I want you; I have something which I wish to say to Miss Lindsay, in the rain." As a matter of fact when he alighted, and the trap had gone on, the shower had already nearly died away; she stood close up to the hedge on one side and he on the other. "I am sorry to be the first bearer of the bad news, I had hoped Nash would have broken the ice. I was present on Saturday at the meeting of Guldenheim and his friends." He did not tell her at what inconvenience he had been present, and of how, in consequence, all his work had got into confusion. "I said all we had arranged that I should say; but I am sorry to have to inform you that the only terms on which they would consent not to throw your father's estate into bankruptcy were that everything should be realized at once."

She smiled, a rather wintry smile, but still it was a smile.

"Thank you; it is very kind of you to take so much trouble; but would you mind telling me exactly what that means."

"I'm afraid it means that Guldenheim and his friends, or their representative, may arrive at Cloverlea to-day. They seem to be hot against your father with a heat I confess I don't understand, and declare they won't wait a moment longer for their money than they can help."

"They need not; I am quite ready to go."

Her pale face grew perhaps a little paler, and her lips were closed a little tighter; but the girl still smiled. He seemed to be more moved than she was.

"If you take my advice, my dear young lady, you'll at once get together as much as you possibly can, and have the things removed from the premises before they come; you can have them sent over to us if you like. Anyhow you're entitled to personal belongings; and in a case like yours the law takes a liberal view of what that term covers."

"I think I've packed up everything already, practically."

"I hope you've treated the situation broadly, and have not been unduly generous to persons who you may be quite sure will show no generosity to you." She nodded; she did not care to tell him, in so many words, that what she chose to regard as her personal belongings were all contained in one small trunk. "And of course you'll come over to us till you have had time to look round; things may turn out much better than at present they promise; you never can tell. The wife is taking it for granted that you're coming, you can take that from me; but, if you think it's necessary, so soon as I get home she'll come and fetch you."

Perhaps it was because that was the first offer of real assistance she had received that her voice was tremulous.

"Thank you; you-you know I thank you and Mrs. Banyard; but-I can't come, I've made other arrangements."

He eyed her suspiciously; his tone was brusque.

"What arrangements have you made?"

"Just for a while they're private."

"Are you going to be married? It would be the best thing you could possibly do, to get married out of hand; I hear your young man's back again, and I've no doubt he's willing; Robert Spencer's not a fool."

Her voice sank nearly to a whisper.

"I'm not going to be married."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"If you don't mind, doctor, I prefer to keep my own counsel for a while."

He broke into alliterative violence.

"You're contemplating some feebly foolish female knight-errantry. I know you! But it won't be allowed; directly I get home I'll send my wife to talk to you; she'll do it better than I can. Your best friends are here; it's they who have your best interests at heart; and you're going to consider their feelings whether you like it or not; you're not going to be allowed to ride over them roughshod, young lady. Sam, bring that pony." He discharged a parting shaft at her as he climbed into the trap. "You understand, my wife will come and talk to you as soon as she gets her hat on; or whatever it is she does put on when she goes out visiting. And I hope you'll have the grace to listen to what she says."

Nora re-entered the house through the open study-window. As she passed through the room she saw that the butler had taken her hint; the missing articles had been replaced. As she was sitting at her lonely early breakfast-for it seemed that Elaine Harding had not yet sufficiently recovered to put in an appearance at so matutinal a meal-she commented on the fact to Morgan.

"I am glad to see that the study is again as it always has been. I wish everything, throughout the house, to remain exactly as it was when my father was alive; nothing is to be touched. Let the servants understand that this is my wish."

Morgan slightly inclined his head, as if to express both perfect comprehension and his readiness to carry out her directions. Then, when, feeling that she preferred to be alone, she told him that he need not wait, he returned straight to the study, gathered together the articles which he had only recently replaced, and walked off with them to a hiding-place of which he flattered himself he alone knew the secret.

"She's had her way," he told himself, as he was stowing them in what he hoped was a place of safety. "Always let a woman have her way, if you can, especially if she's young and good to look at; now it's my turn. She's not likely to go back to the study for a bit; it's worth chancing, anyhow, these things mean quite a heap of money; from what I hear others are likely to get here before she does, and they can look after themselves. At a time like we're going to have every one has to look after himself. If the things are missed, why they can be produced, and everything explained; if they're not missed, and I don't see how they're going to be, if there's a little management, there's no reason why I shouldn't have them, instead of that pack of thieves. I have got some artistic taste; it's born in me; I doubt if they've got any."

He grinned, as he wrapped the Satsuma vase carefully in a large white silk handkerchief.

Having finished breakfast Nora went up to her own sitting-room; but had not been there very long before a servant first knocked shakily, then entered hastily.

"If you please, miss, there's a lot of men downstairs; they didn't ask for you, and I don't know what they want, but they've got such a free and easy way about them that I thought I'd better let you know that they were there; Morgan let them in; they came in a wagonette."

Nora went down without a word. In the hall there was quite a little crowd of men; ten or twelve of them there seemed; among them some sufficiently rough-looking customers. None of them had troubled to remove their hats; but at sight of Nora one of them, a big fat man, beautifully dressed, with a red face, a large nose, and curly shining black hair, removing his hat, advanced to meet her.

"Are you Miss Lindsay?"

He spoke with a curious nasal utterance.

"I am."

"I'm Guldenheim, you know all about me; and these are my friends, who are in the same boat with me, you've heard about them; and these are our chaps. I suppose you know we've agreed not to make a fuss on condition that you give us possession of everything, to cut up between us so that we can get a bit of our own back again, what there is of it to cut up."

"I do know."

"Well, we've come into possession." As he looked at the girl and saw, dimly, what manner of girl she was, he seemed to think that he owed her some sort of apology, which he offered in a fashion of his own. "I dare say it seems hard to you, our coming in like this, but you must know that your father had our money, and my friends' money, and we can't afford to lose it, it isn't to be expected that we should; you must understand that."

"I quite understand," said Nora.

"Then that's all right," said Mr. Guldenheim.

About that time some one was rapping at Miss Harding's bedroom door, on the other side of which Miss Harding was completing her toilette.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"It's me, Morgan; here, come closer to the door, I want to speak to you."

She went so close to the door that even a whisper of his would have been audible.

"What is it?"

"The bailiffs are in down-stairs, the whole show's burst up. You'd better pack up-you know what, as soon as you can; and everything else you've got as well; and anything you see lying about worth packing; at a time like this anything's any one's. Only get a move on you; they may be up here directly, there's a lot of them, and there's no telling how they're going to do things, those sort of people can make themselves very nasty if they like; you don't want to have them superintending your packing; don't you let them in, if you can help it, till you've got your boxes locked. I thought I'd just give you a tip, so that you might look lively."

Miss Harding acted on Mr. Morgan's "tip," beginning, so soon as he had gone, to pack everything she had got, and doing it with feverish haste; but had not proceeded far when something came rattling against the window-panes, something which sounded as if it were a handful of gravel. She drew aside the curtain and looked out. Mr. Nash was below, he waved his hand; apparently it was he who had saluted the window. Hurriedly throwing a dressing-jacket over her bare shoulders, she raised the sash sufficiently to enable her to put her head out, apparently oblivious of the fact that her black hair was streaming loose; she had been engaged in "doing" it when Morgan had knocked at the door.

"Herbert! Did you throw those stones at my window? What do you want?"

The reply from below was hardly an answer to her question.

"I say! Now you are worth looking at! Now you're what I call something like a picture!"