A Woman Perfected

"Mr. Spencer, you-you ought not to be here; I-I must beg of you to let me pass."

"Why, my dear Nora, of course I'll let you pass; do you suppose I want to block the way? But why do you call me Mr. Spencer? and why do you keep out of kissing distance? Do you know how long it is since I had a kiss? and how often of late I've pictured the delicious moment in which I was to have another? Nora!"

The colours chased each other across her cheeks in rainbow hues; she strove her utmost to look dignified; but, to his thinking, she only looked more delightful; her very severity he thought became her.

"Mr. Spencer, you-you have no right to talk to me like this. You have had my letter-"

"Your letter? what letter?"

"The one I sent you yesterday; it ought to have been delivered this morning."

"It wasn't; I've had no letter of yours which you sent me yesterday; where did you send it? to what address?"

"I addressed it to you at Holtye."

"Then that's why I've not had it; possibly I never shall have it. You rushed off in such a flurry, before I could speak a word to you, that I had no chance to tell you that I wasn't staying at Holtye."

"Not staying at Holtye? then where are you staying?"

"At the 'Unicorn,' I've taken a room there; it's only another illustration of the truth of what I've so often told you, the more haste the worse speed. I can see now that you'd go tearing off if I'd let you; but I won't. I want to explain."

"I-I'd rather you explained through the post."

"Then I wouldn't; and I'm not going to. When people wish to understand each other in matters of real importance I hold that they'd better do so face to face; I've no faith in pen and ink; microbes breed in ink-bottles, which breed all sorts of misconceptions. Now I can see that you're rushing at your fences again. You're taking it for granted that I wish to speak to you on one subject, when I principally wish to speak to you about your father. I want to tell you something about him which you ought to know."

"What is it?"

Her voice was faint, as if she felt that unfair engines of war were being used against her.

"Your father hoped that we should marry; he knew that I loved you, and would always love you; and he thought you loved me, and would always love me; and therefore-"

"What were you going to tell me about my father?"

She perceived that he was trenching on dangerous ground, and tried to get him off it; he came off with much agility.

"I met him on the morning on which I was starting for Cairo-"

"You never told me."

"I had an idea that he didn't wish me to mention that I'd met him, so I didn't. We lunched together; he gave me a most excellent lunch-"

"I'm glad he gave you an excellent lunch."

"There, Nora! that's much more like you! thank you! It was an excellent lunch; it was after lunch he said he hoped that we should marry, because, as I have already observed, he knew that-"

"Yes; we'll take that for granted; please go on."

"I'm going on as fast as ever I can; but it'll only be another case of more haste worse speed if you won't let me tell my tale my own way, because, if I don't, I'm nearly sure to leave out essential details. Among other things he remarked that, one day, you'd be a rich young woman."

"You're sure he said that?"

"Quite; your father could express himself clearly enough if he chose; and he expressed himself clearly then."

"But-I don't understand."

"Wait a bit; I'm going to make you understand, if you'll have a little patience. Later, I cannot say that he said so clearly, but he intimated, that he obtained his income from some business with which he was connected, and which represented to him a large sum of money."

"Business! I didn't know that he had anything to do with any business."

"Mind, he didn't state definitely that he had; and I asked no questions, but that was what he hinted. Then he said something which, in the light of recent events, appears to me to have been rather remarkable. He observed that life was always uncertain; that one could never tell the hour when one would die, and that, therefore, since I was going to be the husband of his only child, he would like to place in my hands directions as to what he would desire to have done, in case death took him unawares; or before he completed certain arrangements which he then had in view."

"What a strange thing for him to say!"

"You see how necessary it was that I should see you face to face, and how difficult it would have been to put this on to paper? Nora, I love you!"

"Are you-are you really telling me what my father said?"

"I'm going to tell you everything he said, if you'll give me time enough; only don't suppose for a moment that you're going to keep me from saying that I love you; especially as it was because he knew I loved you, and believed that you loved me, that he told me what he did."

"I-I wish you'd go on."

"After I'd been a few days in Cairo there came a package in which there was a note from him; a brief and characteristic note, to this effect. 'Dear Robert,' you see he called me Robert." He paused, as if to challenge her. "Nora, I wish you'd call me Robert; it's a stupid, ugly, vulgar, clumsy name, but you don't know how I long to hear it on your lips."

"I-I don't know that it's any of the things you say it is; I-I don't know that there's anything particularly the matter with the name."

"That's very sweet of you."

"But I don't think it's either fair or kind of you to try to take advantage of me like this!"

"Take advantage of you! is your sense of justice so warped that you can say a thing like that! In what sense am I supposed to be trying to take advantage of you, Nora?"

"You're pretending to tell me about my father, and-and you keep trying to tell me about other things instead."

"The only tie which bound me to your father, the only reason he had for placing his confidence in me, was his knowledge of my love for you."

"Very well; if you like we'll take that for granted-"

"I don't like."

"Tell me what was in the note!"

"'Dear Robert, referring to our conversation of' such and such a date; at this moment I can't give it you exactly-"

"It doesn't matter."

"'You will find in envelope enclosed herewith the instructions of which I spoke. It is understood that it is only to be opened in the event of my demise; and that, should I for any reason whatever desire its return, you will at once hand it me intact. In acknowledging kindly state that you understand. – Faithfully yours, DONALD LINDSAY.' That was the note. With it was a sealed envelope, inscribed, 'To ROBERT SPENCER. Not to be opened until after my death. – DONALD LINDSAY.'"

"And have you opened it?"

"That's the gist and point of the whole affair-I haven't it."

"I don't understand; I thought you said-"

"I did say. What's that?"

Mr. Spencer's question referred to a sound like the rustling of bushes.

"It's only a rabbit, or a hare."

"It must be a large specimen of either animal, and an awkward one, to make a noise like that."

"What were you going to say?"

"I placed the sealed envelope in my suit-case, together with my other most valuable possessions; which, with the exception of some of your dear letters, were worth about twopence; at the moment I'd nowhere else to put it. When I left, the suitcase was placed, with my other luggage, on the train, and, I presumed, transferred from the train to the boat; yet, when I went down to my cabin, after the boat was fairly off, the suit-case wasn't there."

"What had become of it?"

"That's the problem which I have still to solve, and which I'm going to solve. Either it was left behind at my aunt's, which she denies, or it was left on the train, which the railway company denies, or it was taken by mistake to somebody else's cabin, which every one denies, or it was stolen, of which I haven't the faintest proof. Anyhow, it was, and, at present, it isn't; as yet that's as far as I've got."

"Then my father's letter to you is lost."

"But it's not going to continue lost; I have lost things before, but I'm not going to lose the only thing I ever had worth losing; I've a ridiculous sort of fatalistic feeling that, as matters have chanced, if I lose that letter-really, and truly, and finally lose it-I may lose you; you don't suppose I'm going to sit down quietly and endure that loss with equanimity? You don't know me, my lady, if you do. What is that? Don't tell me that that's either a rabbit or a hare."

"Perhaps it's a fox."

"Foxes don't set the whole countryside in a clatter when they start moving; they're of much too retiring a nature. It's some one making off through the bushes, that's who it is. Hi! you there, who are you?"

There was no reply to his call.

"Perhaps it was some one who came upon us unexpectedly, and-and didn't wish to disturb us."

"Perhaps so; we're obliged to his taste for self-effacement if it is."

"I suppose you've no idea what was in the envelope."

"I've been putting two and two together, and I've formed a hypothesis which I'm convinced can't be very far out. Your father was not a man to say the thing which is not."

"I'm sure of it."

"I also; he did not say you would be a rich woman without cause. The hypothesis I've deduced is this. Your father was a gentleman of the old school; he didn't like commerce; he didn't wish people to think that he had anything to do with commerce; yet all the while he was drawing his income from a business with which he had probably been associated more or less unwillingly. At the time I saw him he was making arrangements to dispose of it; whether or not they were completed I cannot say; that envelope contains the clue. When he spoke of the suddenness of death he was possibly aware that he had a congenital predisposition towards the end which was actually his; and that envelope contained the secret-which he was even perilously anxious to preserve in life-of what was the source of his income, and of the fortune which he had built up for you."

"All this, of course, is surmise."

"You know it's more than surmise; you know that you're a rich woman, as you stand there."

"I know, from the only facts which as yet are established, that, at present, I'm a pauper."

"Well, we're both of us paupers; all the better."

"I don't agree."

"You're taking your cue from my mother."

"I should prove myself very foolish if I need take such a cue from any one."

"There's a wisdom of the foolish which is sometimes wonderful. If you were to marry me tomorrow-"

"As if I should!"

"You'd make my fortune!"

"When, as you've told me again and again, you live on charity; and directly you married me that charity would stop?"

"I know a way by which I could earn two or three hundred a year right off; before long I'd be earning thousands; I'm not incapable, I only need a spur; to work for the woman I love! I ask for nothing better. If I marry a woman with money the probability is that I should never earn a penny."

"No, but you'd earn a name for yourself instead; one can earn something better than money."

"May be."

"And she'd be proud of you."

"Even supposing that you're not buttering me up-"

"As if I would!"

"As if you would! as if you haven't done it over and over again! I know! I say, even granting I'm a swan of the very finest plumage-"

"Mr. Spencer!"

"Miss Lindsay; since you will interrupt me; and will descend to surnames; though, Nora, you're a darling."

"It's no use our indulging in abstract discussions. I've no doubt you'll be able to clothe charming sentiments in the very best language. I know how clever you are."

"Thanks very much."

"But what's the use, since my mind's made up that I won't marry you while I'm a pauper?"

"Acting on my mother's instructions."

"If you like to put it that way; though I wouldn't even if your mother hadn't interposed; if I'd thought I was going to be a pauper I'd never have said I would."

"Although you love me?"

"Because I love you."

"Nora! You're going to make a mess of things."

"I'm going to try not to make a mess of things."

"You're starting the wrong way."

"Listen. I don't think you've behaved well about that envelope my father sent you."

"Do you imagine that I think I have? do I look it? How my countenance belies me!"

"There appear to have been some letters of mine in that suit-case; I didn't think you'd have left my letters lying about."

"Nora!"

"You seem to have left the suit-case lying about, so I suppose you left my letters too."

"Of all the-of all the-! Well, I deserve it."

"I think you do. When you find that envelope you can come and show me what is in it; until then-good-bye."

"Do you mean that?"

"I hope that I am like my father in not saying what I don't mean; I do mean it."

"I'll find that envelope!"

"And I hope you'll find my letters."

"I'll find them too."

"I hope there was nothing in them very-very amusing; it isn't nice to feel that strangers are reading one's-one's private letters."

"You rub it in."

"That's not my intention; would you like to feel that people you know nothing about were reading some of the letters you wrote to me?'

"I know what you mean; I'll find the letters and the envelope, and the suit-case; and if any one has opened that suit-case I'll-I'll make them smart."

"Good-bye."

Already she was moving off; he exclaimed-"Like that! Nora! won't you even give me your hand?"

She stopped, and turned; with something on her face which, in his eyes, made her very beautiful.

"If you'll promise only to take my hand."

"I promise; I'll take only what you're willing to give." They stood, for some seconds, hand in hand, eyes looking into eyes, as if they found it difficult to speak. Then he said, "Don't suppose I don't think you're right; I know you're doing this for me, and I know you're always right. This good-bye is only the prelude to a time of waiting, and hope, and work. First of all I'll find that envelope, then if there's nothing in it to show that you're a millionaire, I'm going to work and be a millionaire-I'll win you in my own way. I'm not afraid of waiting; you'll not marry any one but me."

"I don't think I shall."

"I don't think you will either."

"There's something I'd like to ask, if you won't misunderstand."

"I'll not misunderstand."

"I'd like to kiss you before I go, only-I don't want you to kiss me."

"Nora!"

She moved closer to him, and, while he stood still, she touched her lips to his, a butterfly kiss, then, turning, went quickly down the path. He stood and watched her as she went.

CHAPTER XIII

LOVERS' TIFFS

Nora had not long been gone to church before Miss Harding became sufficiently cured of her headache to permit of her quitting her own apartment. Perhaps she was of opinion that fresh air would do it good; and, notoriously, fresh air is good for headaches; certainly she looked very far from well. She donned her smartest hat, and one of her prettiest frocks, relinquishing, for the nonce, the black dress she had been wearing for her lately departed host. She attired herself with the greatest care, giving minute attention to those small details which mean so much; possibly she was under the impression that costume might have something to do with a cure-yet all her care could not conceal the fact that she was looking ill. When she saw how white she was, and the black marks under the eyes-and actually wrinkles in the corners, and how thin and worn and pinched her face seemed to have suddenly become, she could have cried, only she was painfully conscious that tears had already had too large a share in bringing her to the state in which she was. If she could she would have "assisted nature," only she had nothing with which to do it. Nora's opinions on the subject of "aids to beauty" were strong; Elaine had frequently declared that hers were even stronger. That was the worst of being in the position of "humble friend"; one had sometimes to pretend that one thought what one really did not think, or so it seemed to her. If she had only had a little "something," in a jar, or in a tube, or a stick, or anything-but she would not have dared to run the risk of allowing Nora to find such a thing in her possession. Moreover, until then she had never wanted it. Still, if she had been left alone-that was how she put it-she might have had it by her. Now that she really wanted something, she had absolutely not a thing-obviously the fault of that was Nora's.

The consequence was that when at last she sallied out into the grounds she was conscious that she was not looking her best, in spite of her hat and frock-she knew that there was nothing amiss with them; and that morning it was so very desirable that she should look even better than her best, because she was going to meet Mr. Herbert Nash, and was particularly anxious to twist him round her finger. Every one knows that, where a man's concerned, the better one looks the easier that operation is apt to be found. Miss Harding made one slight error; she ought to have remembered that when one is not looking one's best matters are not improved by being in a bad temper. Good temper may almost act as an "aid to beauty," bad temper certainly won't; and, unfortunately, Miss Harding was so conscious of her defects that her temper suffered.

Nor was it mended by the fact that the gentleman kept her waiting. Perhaps that headache of hers had had something to do with the accident that she had an appointment to keep. She had asked Mr. Nash to let her see him somewhere on Sunday morning, where they could be alone, and he had told her he would be by the fish-pond at such and such an hour. She herself was a little late at the trysting-place; her toilette had taken longer than she had intended; still she was first. She waited-she had no watch, but it seemed that she waited hours, yet he did not come. By the time he did appear her mood was hardly lover-like; nor, it seemed, was his. He came strolling leisurely through the trees, his hands in his jacket pockets, a cane under his arm, a big cigar in his mouth, his hat at a rakish angle-quite at his ease; there was something in his appearance which would hardly have induced the average client to select him as his legal adviser. Elaine always had a more or less vague feeling that this was so; the feeling was stronger than usual as she watched him coming; yet the man had for her such an intense physical fascination that she deliberately refused to let her eyes see what they would have perceived plainly enough if she had only let them. More or less, it was possibly because she realized that that Sunday morning he did not look quite so desirable an example of his sex as he might have done that her greeting was hardly saccharine.

"You've taken your time in coming."

He planted himself in front of her, without removing his hands from his pockets, his cane from under his arm, his cigar from his mouth, or his hat from his head.

"Well, what's the hurry? I had to see a man."

"You knew I was waiting; you might have let him wait."

"I might; but I didn't. Hello! what's wrong?"

He was looking her up and down in a way which made her tingle.

"What do you mean-what's wrong?"

"You look-no offence intended-but you look as if you'd been up all night-a hot night too."

"I have a headache, and waiting for you hasn't made it any better."

"A headache? My mother used to have headaches, and, my word! when she had them didn't she use to make it warm for us. I used to say-"

He stopped, and laughed.

"What did you use to say?"

"I used to say-again no offence intended-that I'd never marry a woman who had headaches."

"I'm not subject to headaches-don't suppose it; I scarcely ever have them; in fact, I don't ever remember having had one before; only-I've been worried."

"Have you? that's bad. Don't do it; be like me-don't let yourself be worried by anything." He took out his cigar and surveyed the ash. "I read somewhere the other day that it's worry makes people grow old before their time; I don't believe much I read, but I do believe that. No matter what goes wrong, don't worry, it will come right; that's my theory of life."

"It's very easy to talk, it's harder to do. You don't seem very pleased to see me now that you have come."

"Don't I? I am; I'm as pleased as Punch."

"You don't show it."

"How do you expect me to show it? By taking you in my arms and kissing you out here in broad daylight, with you don't know what eyes enjoying the fun? If you'll come over the stile into the wood you shall have all the kissing you want-before lunch."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, and I expect you to do nothing of the kind, as you very well know; only-" She suddenly changed the subject. "Did you see Mr. Dawson yesterday, and arrange about the partnership?"

"I saw him, but I can't say I did much more than see him. He didn't seem to be so enthusiastic about the idea of having me for a partner as I expected, and-I can't say I'm very enthusiastic."

"What do you mean? The other day you said it was just the thing you would like to be."

"Yes, in a sense-in default of something better; but I don't want to be premature; since the other day something has occurred to me which may turn out to be better than a partnership with the venerable Mr. Dawson-who, between ourselves, is as supercilious an old beast as I ever want to meet-a good deal better."

"What is it, Herbert?"

She was observing him with-in her eyes, and on her face-an eagerness, a something strained, of which he seemed unconscious, and of which, no doubt, she was unconscious also.

"Excuse me, but that's exactly what I can't tell you-not at the present moment. It's still, as you may say, in the embryo-in the making; but it's there."

He touched his forehead with his finger, as if to denote that the something in question had a safe location in his brain.

"Can't-can't you give me some idea of what it is?"

"It depends on what you call an idea. I'll tell you this much; I'm meditating a coup-a great coup; if I bring it off it'll mean a really big thing; how big I can't tell you, not just now-I don't know myself; but something altogether beyond anything a partnership with old Dawson would mean.

"Herbert, I hope it's nothing risky."

She had run such a risk herself she wanted him to run none; she had had enough of risks, for ever.

"That depends again on what you mean by risky. I'm not sure that I shall go in for it; I haven't quite finished turning it over in my mind; I don't altogether see my way; but if, by the time I have finished turning it over in my mind, I do see my way, why, there you are; I'm a starter. Of course there's always the risk of my not bringing it off, though you may bet I'll do my best" – he said this with a very curious smile; a smile which, for some reason, seemed to bring a sense of chill to her heart. "But I shall be no worse off if I don't-there's no risk in that sense. Then will be the time to join myself in partnership with dear old Dawson."

She drew a long breath. The position was becoming complicated. She had not dreamed that he would have formed a scheme of his own, which she was to be kept out of, or she would not have gone, the second time, through the study window.

"Will-will any money be wanted for what you're thinking of?"

"No; not, at least, from you; of course, money will be wanted, but-it will come from some one else, if it comes at all; that's the idea; plenty of it too."

Again that curious smile came on his face; that, this time, it positively frightened her, showed what a state her nerves were in.

"Herbert, of what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking-of a real big thing."

As she watched him some instinct warned her not to push her curiosity too far; yet there were certain things she must know.

"How long-will it take you to make up your mind?"

"That's something else I can't tell you; I never may make it up. You see, I'm only mentioning this so that you can understand why I'm not anxious to press old Dawson, just yet awhile. There's nothing to be lost by waiting; I'm in no hurry."

"How about our marriage?"

"What do you mean-how about our marriage?"

She would have liked to have told him just what she did mean-that she had invented her aunt's legacy simply because she wanted to be married at once. But she could not do that; she had to get to the point some other way.