"I've just heard."
"A nice lot they are; you can't stop in the house with them; you'll have to clear."
"I told you I should."
"You'd better pack everything you've got and I'll send a trap for you; they may object to your taking anything out of the stable; it's quite possible that they've laid hands on the lot. Anyhow I'll send something for you; how long'll you be?"
"Half-an-hour."
"Not more?"
"I can't tell you to the exact moment how long I'll be; don't be absurd. You send the trap in half-an-hour, and I'll be as quick as ever I can. Where's it going to take me?"
"To the station; I'll meet you there."
"Why at the station?"
"You poor little thing! we're going off together; it's going to be a regular elopement."
"Herbert! How are we going to get married?"
"How soon can you get some of your aunt's money?"
"I've got enough by me to go on with."
"How much do you call enough?"
"Oh, about ninety pounds."
"You sly little thing! Who'd have thought you were stuffed with money like this? It's not so long ago since I pointed out a big hole in your glove, and you said you had to wear old gloves, because you couldn't afford to buy yourself a pair of new ones."
"I dare say; that was a hint to you."
"Was it? then it was thrown away, because if I possessed the price of a pair of gloves it was as much as I did have; though in the sweet by and by I'm going to be a millionaire."
"You haven't said how we're going to get married."
"I'm going to get the licence the other end, and we're going to be married to-morrow."
"Are you sure we can get married to-morrow?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"In church?"
"In church; in St. Paul's Cathedral if you like; though to arrange that might take a little longer."
"I don't want to be married in St. Paul's Cathedral; I want to be married quietly."
"That's what I want; so there we are agreed; hooray!" This cry of jubilation was uttered in a sepulchral whisper. "Now you quite understand? Trap's coming in half-an-hour; you're to be ready; you're going to meet me at the station; we're going to elope; we're going together to get the licence; and to-morrow we're going to be married together; is that perfectly clear?"
"Don't be silly! Are you glad?"
"What for?"
"That we're going to be married; you know!"
"Of course I'm glad; how do you want me to show it? would you like me to stand on my head and dance?"
"No; I only want to know you're glad."
"You wait; you shall have all the knowledge you feel you stand in need of."
"Herbert!"
CHAPTER XVII
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.
CHAPTER XVIII
MISS GIBB
Nora's knowledge of London was as slight as the average young lady's, who has lived mostly in the country, is apt to be; yet, when she left Cloverlea, she went straight to London, with eight pounds, four and twopence in her pocket, intending to live upon that sum until she had discovered some means of earning more. There was some method in her madness. She had been reading a story lately about a young woman who had struggled to make a living in town, and she had had rooms in Newington Butts. Nora had gathered that, while Newington Butts was not an abode of fashion, nor a particularly salubrious neighbourhood, it was within reasonable distance of places where young women could earn money; and, above all, that thereabouts lodgings were both plentiful and cheap.
The train deposited Nora at Paddington. Had she known her way about she would have left her trunk in the cloak-room, and crossed London by one of half-a-dozen different routes, for a few coppers; when she had found lodgings the box would have been delivered at her address for a few more coppers. What she did do was to charter a four-wheeler. It is some distance from Paddington to Newington Butts; to Nora, an unaccustomed traveller, already tired with her journey, hungry and thirsty, the way seemed interminable. She began to wonder if the driver quite knew where he was going; he seemed to go on and on and never get there. At last, a little desperate, she put her head out of the window and asked him-
"Are you sure this is the right way?"
The cab stopped. The driver screwed himself round in his seat, and he observed, in the tone of one who is offended-
"You said Newington Butts, didn't you?"
"Yes."
Hers was the voice of deprecation.
"Very well then; I'm driving you to Newington Butts. If you think you know the way better than I do you can come outside and I'll get inside. I've been driving this cab two and twenty years, and if there's any one who knows the way to Newington Butts better than I do, I should like to know who it is."
She drew her head back and subsided on the seat, doubting no longer. She felt that a man who had been a cabman for two and twenty years ought to know the way to Newington Butts better than she did. The cab went on. There was another period of seemingly interminable jolting; it seemed likely that the springs had been on that cab as long as the driver had. Once more the vehicle stopped. This time the driver asked a question.
"What address?"
As Nora put her head out again hers was the tone of anxiety.
"Is this Newington Butts?"
"It used to be when I was here last, but perhaps it's been and gone and turned itself into something else since; you might ask a policeman if you think it has been up to any game of the kind. There's one standing over there; I'll call him if you like; he might know."
"Thank you; I-I don't think I'll trouble you. The fact is I want lodgings; do you know of any round here?"
"Lodgings? I shouldn't have thought there was any round here to suit you."
"Oh, I'm so sorry; why not?"
"There's about two hundred thousand, I dare say, so perhaps one of them might suit. Anyhow, I'll show you a few samples. Only, mind you, I'm not engaged by the hour, nor yet by the week."
When next the cab stopped the main thoroughfare had been left behind, and they were in a street of private houses.
"Here you are; here's a street pretty nearly full of them; all you've got to do is pick and choose."
Nora, getting out, perceived that in many of the windows there were cards announcing that there were rooms to let. She began her search. At some houses they asked too much; at others they did not take ladies; and there were rooms in which she would not have lived rent-free; perhaps she tried a dozen without success. The cabman, who had followed her from house to house, did not appear to be so disheartened by this result as she did.
"That's nothing," he declared, as she regarded him with doubtful eyes. "Sometimes people go dodging about after rooms the whole day long, and then don't find what they want. There's more round the corner; try them."
Nora went round the corner, the cab moving at a walking pace beside her. The first door at which she knocked was opened by a girl, a small girl, who looked about twelve; but she wore her hair in a knob at the back of her head, and there was something in her manner which seemed intended to inform the world at large that she was to be regarded as a grown woman.
"What rooms have you to let?" asked Nora.
The girl looked at her with sharp, shrewd eyes; her reply was almost aggressive.
"We don't care for ladies, not in the ordinary way we don't."
Nora had been told this before. Though she had not understood why a woman should be objected to merely because she was a woman, she had meekly withdrawn. But there was that about this child-who bore herself as if she were so old-which induced her to persevere.
"I am sorry to hear that. If you were to make an exception in my case I would try not to make myself more objectionable than I could help."
The girl remained unsoftened.
"That may be; but you never can tell. Some give more trouble than they're worth, and some aren't worth anything; this is a respectable house. Still there's no harm in letting you see what we have got."
On the upper floor were a small sitting-room in front and a still smaller bedroom behind; barely, poorly furnished, with many obvious makeshifts, but scrupulously clean.
"What rent are you asking?"
"Ten shillings a week, and not a penny less; it ought to be fourteen."
"I'm afraid I can't pay fourteen shillings a week just yet, but I think I can manage ten; I like the rooms because they seem so clean."
"They are clean; no one can say they're not clean; I defy 'em to."
"Can I see the landlady?"
"My mother's the landlady; she's not very well just now; I can make all arrangements."
"Then in that case don't you think that if I were to take the rooms for a week on trial, at the end of that time we might find out if we were likely to suit each other?"
"We might; there's no knowing. When would you want them?"
"At once; my luggage is at the door."
"Then mind you make the cabman bring it up before you pay him; I know them cabmen."
But the cabman would not be made; he pleaded inability to leave his horse. An individual had appeared who offered to carry up the box for threepence; so Nora let him. After the cabman had been paid there remained of her capital less than eight pounds. When they were again up-stairs she said to the girl-
"What's your name? I'm Miss Lindsay."
"I'm Miss Gibb."
Nora smiled; the child said it as if she wished the fact to be properly appreciated.
"I meant, what is your Christian name?"
"Angelina; though I'm generally known as Angel, you see it's shorter; though I don't pretend that there's anything of the angel about me, because there isn't."
"I fancy I'm tired, my head aches; do you think you could let me have some tea?"
"Course I could; are you going to do for yourself, or are we going to do for you?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Are we going to do your marketing, or are you going to do it for yourself? If you take my advice you'll do it for yourself; it'll save you trouble in the end, and then there won't be no bother about the bills. The last lodger we had in these rooms he never could be got to see that he'd had what he had had, there was always a rumpus. Quarter of a pound of tea a week he used to have, yet he never could understand how ever it got into his bill. I'll let you have a cup of tea, and some bread and butter, and perhaps an egg; then afterwards I dare say you might like to go out and lay in a few stores for yourself." The girl turned as she was leaving the room to supply the new-comer with a piece of information. "Number 1, Swan Street, Stoke Newington, S.E., that's the address you're now in, in case you might be wanting to tell your friends."
In Swan Street Nora continued to reside, while the days went by, though she never told her friends. From Cloverlea, and the position of a great heiress, with all the world at her feet to pick and choose from, to Swan Street and less than eight pounds between her and beggary, was a change indeed. Used only to a scale of expenditure in which cost was never counted she was incapable of making the best of such resources as she had. Miss Gibb took her to task, on more than one occasion, for what that young woman regarded as her extravagance.
"Don't want it again? What's the matter with the bread? Why, there's the better part of half a loaf here."
"Yes, but I had it the day before yesterday."
Nora spoke with something like an air of timidity, as she stood rather in awe of Miss Gibb when that young person showed a disposition to expand herself on questions of domestic economy.
"Day before yesterday? Let's hope you'll never be wanting bread. I've known the time when I'd have been glad to have the week before last's. Then look at those two rashers of bacon you told me to take away yesterday, what was the matter with them?"
"They weren't-quite nice."
"Not nice?"
"I didn't think they were-quite fresh."
"Not fresh? I know I cooked them for my dinner and there didn't seem to be anything wrong about them to me. Then there was that lump of cheese which you said was all rind, it made me and Eustace a handsome supper. Of course I know it's none of my business, and of course any one can see you're a lady from the clothes you send to the wash; but if there's one thing I can't stand it's waste; perhaps that's because I've known what want is."
Nora had been in the house more than a week without seeing or hearing anything of her landlady, or of any managing person except Miss Gibb. She made constant inquiries, but each time it seemed that Mrs. Gibb was "not very well just now," though what ailed her Miss Gibb did not explain. One afternoon, as she was removing the tea-things, Nora was struck by the look of unusual weariness which was on the preternaturally old young face; something in the look determined her to make an effort to solve the mystery of the invisible and inaudible landlady.
"Angel, whenever I ask you how your mother is you always say she's not very well just now; but the only person I've seen or heard moving about the house is you. I'm beginning to wonder if your mother is a creature of your imagination." Angel said nothing; she continued to scrape the crumbs off the tablecloth with the blunt edge of a knife. "Are you alone in the house?"
"Course I'm not; how about my brother, Eustace? You've seen and heard him, haven't you?"
Eustace, it appeared, was only slightly his sister's senior, and almost as old; though Nora felt that no one could really be as old as Angel seemed; she admitted that she had seen Eustace.
"Very well then; he don't go till after nine and he's back most days before six, so how can I be alone in the house?"
"I know about Eustace; as you say, I've seen him. But I was thinking of your mother. Where is she; or have you reasons why you would rather not tell me?"
"What do you mean by have I reasons?"
The light of battle came into the child's eyes; it was extraordinary how soon it did come there.
"I was wondering if, for any reason, you would prefer to keep your own counsel."
"We don't all of us care to turn ourselves inside out; seems to me you don't for one."
The accusation was so true that Nora was routed.
"I beg your pardon, Angel; I didn't mean to seem to pry."
"No harm done that I know of; bones aren't broke by questions." She folded the tablecloth. As she placed it in its drawer, and her back was turned to Nora, she said, as with an effort, "Mother's paralyzed."
"Paralyzed? Oh, Angel, I'm so sorry; where is she?"
Miss Gibb faced round, again all battle.
"Where is she? This is her own house, isn't it? In whose house do you suppose she'd be if she wasn't in her own? I can't think what you mean by keeping on asking where is she?"
Nora was properly meek.
"You see, I only asked because I never hear her moving about; I never hear any one but you, and Eustace."
"Mean I make a clatter?"
"Angel! you know I don't. You are nearly, as quiet as a mouse; but your mother is so very quiet. I hope the paralysis is only slight."
"That's the trouble, it isn't. It's been coming on for years; during the last three years it's been downright bad; and during the last twelve months she's hardly been able to move so much as a finger."
Nora reflected; how old could the child have been when the mother was taken "downright bad"?
"Can she do nothing for herself?"
"Can't even feed herself."