A Woman Perfected

"How-how dare you! how dare you speak to me like this!"

"I say, if you have any sense of decency, to release him from the most unfortunate position in which your father's misrepresentations, and your own peculiar behaviour, have entangled him."

"Has-has he sent you here?"

"If you persist in putting such a question I shall understand that you have no sense of decency; surely any young woman with a spark of honour in her composition, must perceive that in such a situation the man would not be likely to send-that the initiative must come from her, not from him."

"I simply wish to learn if Mr. Robert Spencer knows that you have come to me upon this errand."

"He does not know; which gives you an opportunity to free him gracefully before the true state of affairs does come to his knowledge."

"If he wishes to be what you call 'free,' do you suppose that for one moment I would stand in his way?"

"It is not so much a question of what he wishes, as of what you wish. If you wish, though ever so slightly, to hold him to his bargain, I dare say he'll be held, even to the extent of making you his wife; though he will regret it ever afterwards, and will probably live to curse the day on which you first placed yourself in his path. Young men have married undesirable women, who were in no way fitted to be their wives, and who were thinking only of themselves, before to-day, and will again; I have seen examples of it in my own family, to my great sorrow. I intend, if I can, to save my son Robert from such a fate, whatever you may say or do; the purport of my presence here is merely to learn if you are, or are not, possessed of a shred of principle."

"I cannot conceive why you talk to me like this; what makes you think yourself entitled to take up such an attitude towards me; what I have done which causes you to address me in such a strain."

"That's high-faluting, it's talk of that sort which makes me suspect that you must be even worse than I supposed. Your father held you out to the world as a young woman who was rich already, and who would be still richer later on, and you tacitly endorsed his positive statements; then he dies just in time to save himself from being made a fraudulent bankrupt, leaving you worse than a pauper, and you have the assurance to pretend to wonder why I and the Earl regard you-I will be as civil as I can-askance. Talk sense, Miss Lindsay; don't presume on our simplicity any longer. You are perfectly well aware that, had we been aware of the truth from the first, we should never have countenanced you in any way whatever. Your father's lies, with which you went out of your way to associate yourself-I know! – deceived us; and they deceived my son; there's the truth for you, if you never heard it before."

Nora looked as if she could have said many things; but she only asked a question.

"What, precisely, is it that you wish me to do?"

"I wish you to do something to, at least in part, undo the mischief which you have done already, to atone for the evil of which you have been the cause; I wish you to show by your demeanour your consciousness of the miserably false position in which you have been placed by others, or in which you have placed yourself, it doesn't matter which. In other, and plainer words, I wish you to hand me my son's letters and presents, and to sit down at once and write a letter, which I will hand him, in which you express your appreciation of the fact that he asked you to become his wife under an entire misapprehension, and that now, since circumstances have turned out so wholly different to what they were represented to be, your own self-respect forbids you to allow any association to continue between you; and that, in short, all is over between you, in every possible sense of the phrase. I want you to put that down, as plainly, and as finally, as it can be put, in black and white, because, Miss Lindsay, I wish to save my son Robert, at the earliest possible, from the danger in which he stands, and to do it while he is still absent."

"But, my dear mother," exclaimed the voice of some new-comer, "your son Robert is not still absent, he is here."

Looking round the trio saw that the Honourable Robert Spencer was standing at the open window.

CHAPTER XI

ROBERT

Robert Spencer was not only, as his mother put it, a handsome young fellow; he had more than good looks, he had that air of distinction which goes with character. No one with even a slight knowledge of physiognomy could see him once without perceiving that he was physically, mentally, and probably morally, a strong man, and, what was almost as much, a likable man. As he stood framed in the open window, with the glory of that almost uncannily glorious April sun lighting up the frame, each of those who saw him was conscious of an impulse which, had it been yielded to, would have resulted in a scene of tenderness. He was dear to his parents, and he knew it; they themselves scarcely knew how dear, and that also he suspected. He was dear, with a different sort of dearness, to the girl who moved towards him, as if impelled by a power against which she was helpless; only to start back, shrinking timidly, with frightened, longing eyes, and cheeks on which the crimson faded to pallor. Yet, though he was dear to all of them, there was not one of the three who would not rather he had not appeared upon the scene just then. His mother, with characteristic courage, gave expression to her feeling on the spot.

"Robert! my boy! we don't want you. Where have you come from? and what are you doing here?"

He smiled, and his was such a pleasant smile it did one good to see it.

"Why, mother, I'm sorry to hear that you don't want me. I've rushed from the station to tell Nora, what I've not a doubt she knows already, that I hope she'll find in me some one who'll take the place, at least in part, of him whom she has lost."

When he advanced into the room his mother placed herself in his path.

"Robert, my dear boy, you ought not to be here. Go back to Holtye, and when I return I will explain to your perfect satisfaction why I say it."

"Ought not to be here! – where Nora is! My dear mother! Nora, why do-why don't-Nora, what's the matter?"

He made a sudden forward movement, but once more his mother was too quick for him; again she interposed; if he did not wish to knock her over he had to stand still.

"Robert, I must beg you to do as I desire, and return at once to Holtye."

"My dear mother, I must beg you to stand aside, and let me speak to Nora."

The old woman turned to the girl.

"Miss Lindsay, you perceive how my son treats me; have you nothing which you wish to say?"

"Of course," replied the son in question, "Nora has something which she wishes to say-I'm sure I don't know why you call her Miss Lindsay; she's not likely to say it when addressed like that. I'll make a suggestion, mother; you go back to Holtye, with the dad, and I'll talk to Nora when you're gone, and I'll tell you some of the things she says to me when I return to Holtye."

The old lady stuck to her guns.

"Miss Lindsay, is there nothing that you wish to say?"

"Yes, Mr. Spencer, there is something which I wish to say-your mother is right; you ought not to be here." With a great effort she had brought herself to the sticking-point. She was one of those women who have in them an infinite capacity for suffering, yet who remain unbeaten though they suffer. If she once saw what she believed to be her duty straight in front of her, though her flesh might quail, her soul would not falter; she would do her duty as certainly as any of that great host who have died for duty, smiling as they died. The Countess had not put things pleasantly, but it seemed to Nora that she had put them correctly; she ought not to marry the man she loved, for his own sake; and because she loved him with something of that love which passes understanding, she would not marry him-to his own hurt. She proceeded to make this as clear to him as she could. "There has been a misunderstanding between us from the first; I don't know that the fault has been altogether mine, but there has been. It is necessary that we should understand each other now. When I consented to become your wife it was under a misapprehension; I did not know it then; I know it now. Now that I do know it, it is quite clear to me that it is impossible that I should be your wife, and I never will be. Therefore, since what your mother says is obviously correct, and you ought not to be here, I would join with her in asking you to go."

Robert Spencer stared as if he found it difficult to credit that this formal, cold, somewhat pedantic young woman was the girl whom he had found all love and tenderness; indeed he refused to credit it.

"Nora, you're-not well."

He said this with such a comical twist, and such a sunny smile, that she all but succumbed, she loved him for it so; she was all of a quiver, her heart seemed melting. It was possibly because she perceived the girl's sad plight that the sharp-eyed old woman took another hand in the game.

"Robert, is it necessary that Miss Lindsay and I should retire? I should not have thought that you would have required two women to ask you to go, before you went. I repeat that you shall have all explanations-from Miss Lindsay and from me-when I see you at Holtye."

But Robert still smiled, and he shook the handsome, clever head, which the Countess ought to have known was too clever to be hoodwinked quite so easily.

"It won't do, mother; I'm sorry to seem to run counter to your wishes; but it's clear to my mind that it is I who am entitled to ask you to leave me alone with Nora; it pains me to observe your seeming reluctance to do what you know you ought to do. Dad, you'll understand; won't you take my mother away?"

The Earl, thus appealed to, cleared his throat, and then observed-

"Robert, you're a fool; leave this business to your mother; you come and talk to me."

He moved towards the window, as though inviting his son to accompany him into the grounds, and to have that talk out there and then; but Robert stood still.

"Thank you, dad; it's very good of you, and I'll have all the talk with you you can possibly desire-after I have had a talk with Nora."

All at once the girl solved the question in her own fashion; she spoke tremulously, yet in haste.

"I-I think that if Mr. Spencer won't go, then-then it is better that I should."

And she did go, towards the door, and through it like a flash, before the person principally concerned had a chance to stop her.

"Nora!" he cried, the instant she had gone, and he went rushing towards the door through which she had vanished; but again his mother, showing an agility which, in a person of her years, was remarkable, stood in his way.

"Robert, I insist upon your conducting yourself like a gentleman! If you will not show me the respect which is due to your mother, you at least shall not behave in a stranger's house in a way which is unbecoming to my son."

He looked at the old woman, who had planted herself in front of him, upright and stiff as a post, and he drew back; this time his smile was grave.

"Mother, I trust that you are not forgetting that there is a respect which a mother owes to her son. Why do you object to my having any conversation with my affianced wife?"

"Don't you know that her father is dead?"

"Certainly I know it; just dead, and just buried; it is on that account that I feel so strongly that my place is with her."

"Don't talk nonsense!"

"Mother, when you were alone in the world, didn't you feel that my father's place was with you?"

"Robert, your brothers have behaved like fools, but I hope you won't; you are all the hope I have left; it will break my heart if you do. This girl's father has turned out to be an impostor!"

"An impostor? Mother, in saying what you have to say to me will you please remember you are speaking of the woman who is to be my wife, and your daughter, and so choose language which does not convey more than you intend?"

"Don't presume to lecture me! that is going too far. I say he has turned out to be an impostor-and he has!"

"In what sense?"

"He told your father he was going to give his girl a house and furniture and five thousand a year, besides leaving her a rich woman when he died; and now he hasn't left enough to pay his debts; if that isn't being an impostor I don't know what is!"

"A good deal of water has gone over the mill since he said that; he may have had money then, and yet have lost every penny of it since."

"Then he ought to have told you."

"Why?"

"Why! you know perfectly well why. I believe it is your wish to irritate me, when I'm very far from well, as your father here will tell you. That man knew that you were not in a position to marry a poor woman, and that we should never have given our consent if it had not been for this distinct assurance that his daughter would be amply provided for."

"Well?"

"Well! it's not well; there's nothing well about it! You shan't speak to me like this-I won't have it! Robert, I want you to promise that all shall be at an end between Miss Lindsay and you; she herself sees the matter in the proper light-"

"Does that mean that you have been talking: to her?"

"Certainly I have been talking to her; and I will say this, that she did not take long to see where her duty lay."

"Is it possible that she took it for granted that I should behave like a blackguard-at my mother's bidding?"

"Robert, how dare you!"

"It is not I, mother, who dare; I dare not. I asked Miss Lindsay to be my wife when her father was alive, and a rich man and all was well with her. If, now that all is not well with her, I attempt to repudiate the solemn engagements into which I then entered-"

"Fiddle-de-dee! solemn engagements indeed! You entered into no solemn engagements, and I'll take care you don't. Robert, you are the only creature I have left to love."

"I don't see how that can be, since you have eight other children and a husband."

"My boy, my boy, don't you be so cruel as to pretend that you don't understand! You're my youngest born, the child of my old age, my baby-you're dear to me in a special sense, as you know very well. If you marry this girl, who is not only penniless, but who is in honour bound to pay her father's debts, and who'll drag you down into the gutter, because your aunt will never give you another penny when she knows the facts, on the day of your marriage I'll commit suicide."

"Mother!"

"I will, so now you're warned; and she shall know why I do it. I'll not live to be mocked by all my children; I've had nine of them, as you say, and if not one of them will try to please his mother-then God help us mothers."

The young man turned to the Earl.

"Do you associate yourself, sir, with my mother in this matter?"

"Certainly I do-most distinctly I do; with what she says respecting this young woman most emphatically I do; I can't conceive of a rational creature doing anything else. As matters have turned out the girl's impossible-absolutely out of the question. If you can't see it, Robert, you're a fool."

"Thank you, sir." The young man regarded his plain-speaking sire with a wry little smile. "I think it probable that when you have thought things over, sir, you will modify your views; but while you hold them so warmly, plainly it is desirable that I should restrict myself to a bare announcement of the fact that they are not mine."

He moved towards the window; his mother called out to him.

"Robert, where are you going? You will return with us. We came in the landau; there is plenty of room. I beg you will give us your company; indeed, if it is not sufficient for a mother to beg of her son, then I insist upon your doing so."

"Pardon me, mother, but I am not going to Holtye; I have taken a room at the 'Unicorn.'"

"The 'Unicorn!' Robert! Harold, will you be so good as to ask him what he means?"

The Earl did as he was bid.

"Robert, what do you mean by saying that you have taken a room at the 'Unicorn'? – an inn! – a mere tavern! at the gate of your father's house!"

"The 'Unicorn' can hardly be said to be at the gate of Holtye, since it is at a distance of a good five miles."

"Stuff, sir! Five miles or fifty, what does it matter? Holtye is your home, and you will be so good as to come home; we've been expecting you; we've been looking forward to your return; I trust that the day is far distant on which you will cease to regard Holtye as your home."

"Unless he wishes to break his mother's heart."

The interpolation was the lady's.

"So no nonsense, sir; get into the carriage and we'll drive you home."

"You are very kind; permit me, sir, to finish. It is plain that my mother and you have made up your minds that Miss Lindsay shall not become my wife; you will probably leave no stone unturned which will keep us apart. I appreciate your motives, and though I think them unworthy, I know you think they're for my good; but I have made up my mind that she shall be my wife, and I will stop at nothing which will bring about that desirable consummation. Under these conditions obviously the more we are together the more friction there will be; and therefore, equally obviously, it is desirable that, for the present at least, I should not come to Holtye. But I promise you this, that when she's my wife I'll come-and I'll bring her with me."

"You'll do nothing of the kind; if you ever do marry her you'll never set foot inside the door again."

This, of course, was the Countess; her son laughed.

"You hear my mother, sir! Isn't that conclusive?"

He passed through the window and out of sight, the Earl and the Countess staring at the place where he had been. The Earl was the first to speak.

"Jemima, what on earth was the use of saying a thing like that? Don't you know him better than to threaten?"

"What am I to say? what am I to do? Who'd have children! – they're the cause of suffering and sorrow to their mothers from their cradles to their graves! I wish I'd never had one!"

"My dear Jemima, I dare say, also, you wish you had two heads, but you haven't. For my part, I don't know that I regret the line he's taken up."

"Harold! Do you wish to see him ruined?"

"Not at all; quite the other way; that's exactly it. In cases of this sort, when the man throws over the woman there's a certain amount of odium attached to his conduct-I realize that as clearly as he does; but when she throws him over that's another thing. Robert's pig-headed-"

"Like his father!"

"And his mother! he's no worse on that account, Jemima, not in the sense in which I use the word. You'll not move him, but you will the girl; there's your objective. In her way, unless I'm mistaken, she's as pig-headed as he is. He may use all the eloquence he has at his command, but, after what you said to her, and the way in which you put things, I doubt if she'll marry him though he pleads till he is dumb-they are a pair of Quixotes; when it comes to rank, downright Quixotry, she'll beat him on his own ground."

And the lady considered her lord's words.

"I shouldn't be surprised," she admitted, "if you are right."

"I know I'm right," he said. "I haven't come to my time of life without being a student of human nature."

CHAPTER XII

IN THE WOOD

On the Sunday morning Nora went to church alone. Miss Harding, who did not appear at breakfast, sent word that she had a headache and hoped that Nora would excuse her; which Nora was glad to do; she preferred to go alone.

For the first time for some days the sky was overcast; the sun was hidden, as if the clerk of the weather desired to show that he was in sympathy with the girl's feelings. Certainly the girl's mood was not a sunny one. The church was distant from the house about a mile. The way to it was through the grounds; along a footpath through the wood, across Farmer Snelling's thirty-acre field, into the copse on the other side, where the first daffodils were always found; when you were out of the copse almost in front of you was the Rectory Lane; a hundred yards along the lane, turn sharply to the left, there was the lych-gate under which, aforetime, more parish coffins rested than men had count of. As she went the familiar way, amid the many evidences of the hasting spring, the spirit of the morning seemed to enter into her, so that, as she passed into the church, and knelt where she had knelt so many times in happier days, the peace of God came into her soul and she knew, with an abiding sense of comfort, that indeed all things are in His hands.

She never forgot that morning's service; the last at which she was privileged to be a worshipper in what she had thought would always be, in a special sense, her own church; the memory was with her, as a sweet savour, in the still darker days which were to come. It was Palm Sunday, for Easter was late that year; the hour of the Church's mourning was close at hand; the appointed service for the day seemed to be peculiarly suited to her own case; before it was at an end her thoughts ceased to be centred on herself; her head, and her heart, were both abased before a sorrow that was greater than hers.

When she came out, at the close of service, she was surrounded by people, villagers and others, for there was not a creature in the parish, good or bad, high or low, with whom she was not on terms of intimacy; unconsciously she illustrated the doctrine that-

"He prayeth best who loveth bestAll things, both great and small;For the dear God who loveth us,He made and loveth all."

They had all a word of sympathy to offer, crude words some of them were, but she knew that all of them were well meant, and that was something; what was hidden from her, and from them, was knowledge of the fact that to most of those who clustered round her, and who waylaid her as she went, the words which were uttered were words of farewell; that before another Sunday came round she was to be parted from them as by a great sea. At the church porch, in the Rectory Lane, in the copse across Farmer Snelling's field, she found some one who had at least a word to say; sometimes it was an ancient, sometimes a toddling child. She had gained the stile which one had to climb to get into the wood before she was able to feel that the last of the interviewers was done with; she did not guess that on the other side of that stile lurked the most irrepressible of them all.

Although there was a right of way through the wood it was one which was seldom used, except by the household at Cloverlea; and how often they went that way was shown by the untrodden moss which almost hid the track. And yet it was a pleasant wood, and an inviting path; it had only to be followed a very little way, there were delicious nooks and dells. Most of the trees were old, and many of them were stately; yet they were excellent company, if one chanced to be alone. As Nora had found, many a time. She loved that wood; it was to her as a dear friend; so often had she come to it to dream, waking dreams, and to be alone in it, with her joys. The season, that year, was early. The chestnuts-there were not many in the wood, only about a dozen, but they were all fine trees-were already nearly in full leaf; the elms were showing green; there was promise of green upon the beeches; only the oaks were still bare; in all the wood, somewhere, was the gleam and glow and glory of that lustrous, delicate, fleeting green which is spring's greatest marvel. And though the sun still was hidden, she felt how beautiful it was, and how good to be in it there alone; until she came upon a man who was leaning against a tree, the finest chestnut in the wood, the splendour of whose leafing branches formed a canopy above him.

The man was Robert Spencer; the tree was just round a bend in the path, so that she was almost up against him before she had the faintest notion that any one was there. To judge from her demeanour the sight of him alarmed her; she drew back with a half-stifled cry, staring at him as if he were some dangerous thing. He, on his side, was all smiles, as if he was very conscious that she was the pleasantest thing he had seen that day. He held out both hands, with his cap in one.

"Nora! at last! I was afraid you were never coming!"

There was no mistake about the joyous ring which was in his voice. On her part she seemed not to know what to say, or do, or make of him, as if his presence there was a possibility of which she had never dreamed.