Nora went to her bedroom. It was a pleasant room; as it was then it was practically her own creation; it represented her ideal of what her sleeping chamber ought to be. She had even invested it with an air of romance, as girls, when they are at the most romantic period of their lives, sometimes will do. There are girls who regard their bedrooms as if they were parts of themselves. Nora was one of them; she regarded her bedroom as if it were part of herself.

As she entered it that afternoon, it seemed to her that there was something strange about it, as if something had come into the atmosphere which was not present when she was in it last. It disturbed her, until she understood that the change was in her; that she had already unconsciously realized that this room, which had meant to her so many things, which she supposed would be hers for ever, might, probably, soon be hers no longer. With that feeling in her mind the room could never again be to her what it had been before; she felt almost as if she were a stranger in it then. Seating herself at her writing-table, she took the Bible which lay on the little shelf in front, and read in it, trying her hardest to concentrate her attention on its pages; but it was not easy, even the sacred words came to her through a mist. But when she closed the book, and went and knelt beside the bed, pillowing her face on the coverlet, as she had done again and again, times without number; alike in her infrequent moments of sorrow-she knew then what pigmy things those sorrows had been! and in her abounding hours of joy; – it was almost with a sense of terror that it was borne in upon her what great happiness she in truth had known-there came to her, as she continued to kneel, that peace which she so earnestly desired; so that she arose from prayer refreshed, and with that courage in her heart which refreshment brings. Placing herself on the armchair which stood by the open window, resting her arms on the sill, looking at the green world, perhaps without seeing how green and beautiful it was, so far as she could, she thought it all out.

And the more she thought the more clearly she apprehended that life for her-life as she hitherto had understood it-was at an end already, before it had scarcely begun, if the things which she had heard were true. She must depart from Cloverlea, and all that it stood for, and go out into a world, of which she knew nothing, to earn her own bread; she wondered, with an odd little smile, how she was going to set about it; if the picture was as black as it had just been painted. But was it? In her heart of hearts she doubted. Although she had been in such slight communion with her father; although his attitude towards her had been, in many respects, so unfatherlike; she believed that she had understood him, and that they had had much more in common than he had chosen to let it appear; – it would require a great deal to convince her that she was wrong.

She was fortified in her belief by a curious idea which, almost in spite of herself, obsessed her more and more; that she understood him better now that he was dead than she had done when he was living; that she was closer to him now than she had been then; that she saw more clearly into his very heart, and knew what manner of man he really was; and she knew that he was not the kind of man he must have been if the things which she had heard were true. He was incapable of falsehood; in small things, as in large, the soul of honour; he had not lied when he had told her that there would be enough for Robert as well as for her. Even then she had gathered more from what he said than his actual words; and she had understood that he had meant that she should gather more. She believed that he had wished her to know that in the future she would be a rich woman, and that his brief speech had been intended to convey that meaning; she was persuaded that he would not have meant it if it had not been true.

Yet, how was she to reconcile these things with the facts as they appeared at present? What explanation would make them harmonize? She did not know; she admitted to herself that she did not know; still she was convinced that, when everything was known, her father's truth would be established.

While Nora thought and thought; in the pretty bedchamber which had been assigned to her as an honoured guest, Elaine Harding was wrestling with troubles of her own, and her troubles were worse than Nora's. In her dressing-case, under a false bottom, were nearly three thousand pounds which did not belong to her; the dressing-case itself had been a gift from Nora, who had shown her the false bottom with glee, pointing out what a safe hiding-place it would be for any special treasures she might desire to keep from prying eyes. Almost the first use she had made of it had been to conceal the huge sum of which she had robbed the giver.

How she hated herself for what she had done! how gladly she would have restored the money to its place upon the dead man's table! She understood now what it had been doing there; doubtless it was the amount which it was his custom to pay into the bank each quarter, which it had been his intention to deliver on the morrow. God had intervened on the one hand, the devil on the other; she had played the devil's game; – fool! idiot! wretch that she had been! She realized quite clearly that that money would never bring any good to her; that it would lie like some obscene incubus on her whole life; even if she bought a husband with the proceeds of her stealing, how could she expect that such a marriage would be blest? The dressing-case itself had become a sort of monomania; not only did she keep it locked, but she hid it in her trunk and kept that locked; even then she was continually haunted by fears that some one was taking liberties with her property, as she had done with that of others. Suppose, by some mischance, the secret of that false bottom was discovered, what would happen then? She did not dare to think. What a fool she had been to tell Herbert Nash that tale about the legacy. It was not only a gratuitous, it was a foolish lie; she had seen that for herself almost as soon as it was told. He had only to make the most superficial inquiries, the falsehood would be discovered. She felt like biting her tongue out every time she thought of it. Her only excuse was that she had done it on the spur of the moment, without thinking; yielding to a temptation which was stronger than her. If only she did not love him! with so strange and violent a love that she had been willing to do what she had done rather than that he should not love her, rather than that she should not win him for her own! If, now, he were to find her out-what she had done-for his sake, what would he think of her then? But he should not find out; she would take care that he did not find out; rather than he should find out she would continue as she had begun, at whatever cost to herself, and to others.

Therefore it seemed to her disordered, tortured, twisted brain, that there was only one thing to be done, to make amends, to wipe off some of the blackness from her sin. She had told him that her aunt had left two thousand pounds. Well, he should have it. He had already had two hundred; there would be fifteen hundred for a share in Mr. Dawson's practice; the rest would be required to furnish a house, so that they might be married at once-on that point she was resolved, that there should be no delay about their being married; after what had happened she would be in constant agony till she had become his wife, and, so far, safe. He could not put his wife from him, even if he did find out. She was inclined to make it a condition that he should marry her before she gave him another farthing; in that way she would make sure of him. Even then, after the whole of the two thousand had been expended, more than a thousand pounds would still remain. It looked as if a thousand pounds would be a fortune to Nora Lindsay; a windfall from the skies; manna from heaven, which would at least preserve her from starvation. Nora should have the superfluous thousand; she would insist on it. It was true that such a sum would be most useful to a young couple, just married; but what did that matter, in face of Nora's pressing need? It was only too probable that they would be occasionally pinched; Herbert had explained that his income from a share of Mr. Dawson's practice would not, at the beginning, be large; there were eventualities for which they ought to be prepared; but such considerations were as nothing when one thought of Nora. She must be considered before anything else; she who had been such a faithful, such a generous friend; the whole of that thousand pounds should be hers.

By the time that Miss Harding had finally decided that this should be so she had nearly worked herself into a consciousness of virtue. When you looked facts in the face, from one point of view, it was generous to give away such a sum as that, especially when you remembered how much she stood in need of it herself; beyond a doubt that was how it would appear to Nora. Nora would appreciate her beneficence; would realize that this was the result of being kind to her humble friend in the days of her prosperity; the knowledge that the bread which she had cast upon the waters had returned to her after many days ought to make her-well, it ought to make her more contented with the measure which had been meted out to her; Elaine felt that it ought.

What Miss Harding had to do next was to invent some plausible explanation of how the money had come into her hands, and she was aware that that was not easy. So hard, indeed, was it to find that explanation that, in her despair, she nearly decided, after all, to relinquish her philanthropic scheme. But she would not do that-she could not do it; she had said that Nora should have the money, and she should. The misfortune was that Nora knew so much about her; it would be impossible to produce an aunt for her; Nora would refuse to swallow that aunt. Being intimately acquainted with the family history, she was pretty well aware that all the members of the Harding family would not be able to produce a thousand pounds between them. And then-there were other things. Only a short time ago Nora had "obliged" her, as Elaine phrased it, with the "loan" of a ten-pound note; if Miss Harding had had a thousand pounds laid by she would hardly have wanted those ten sovereigns.

So elusive did that explanation seem, so persistently did it refuse to come at her bidding, that Elaine brushed back her pretty hair with her pretty hands with what she intended to be a frenzied gesture, which was certainly not unbecoming, and at that moment she formed a resolution. She would go to Nora there and then, straight off, and approach the subject gently, trusting to the inspiration of the moment to provide her with the lie which would sound like truth, which it was so necessary that she should find to aid her in her beneficent purpose. No one knew better than she did how quickly her wits could come to her assistance at a pinch; with characteristic courage she took it for granted that they would not fail her when she was alone with Nora, and heart was speaking unto heart. In so doing she overlooked one factor-the unexpected. Experience had taught her that when she was hard pressed her wits could be relied upon, but hitherto she had always found herself in situations for which she was more or less prepared. The immediate future had something in store for her which was wholly unexpected.

CHAPTER IX
THE BUTLER

Elaine's room was at some distance from Nora's; they were in different wings. Miss Harding, whose habits were, in some respects, peculiar, always preferred that her room should not be too close to her friend's; though Nora herself would have liked to have had her nearer. To reach Miss Lindsay Elaine had to traverse a lengthy passage, which was divided in the centre by a square opening, which was used sometimes as a lounge. As Miss Harding moved along some one came out of this recess, and addressed her. It was Morgan, the butler.

Mr. Morgan was tall and fair-very fair. His face and eyebrows, and eyelashes, and hair were all of the same colour; it had rather an odd effect, which some people thought unpleasant. Many persons have an uncomfortable habit of never looking you in the face; he had what some felt was a nearly equally uncomfortable habit of never looking away from your face; he regarded any one with whom he might be talking with a fixed, impassive stare, which never faltered; there was a quality in his light greyish-blue eyes which, under such circumstances, was occasionally disconcerting. Miss Harding, who, in her way, was shrewd enough, had never known what to make of him; more than once, during her visits to Cloverlea, she had had a vague feeling that his demeanour towards her was not quite all that it ought to have been; the feeling came to her with unpleasant force as he stood before her then. Yet nothing could have been more decorous than his bearing; while he spoke with the softly modulated voice with which a well-trained servant ought to speak.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Harding, but can I speak to you for a moment?"

She said him neither yea nor nay, but put to him a question in return.

"What is it, Morgan?"

"It's about these."

He was extending towards her, on his open palm, what she perceived were three sovereigns. Whose they were, whence they came, what they meant, she had not a notion; but all at once she was conscious, not only of a curious fluttering of the heart, but of a desire to get away from him as quickly as she could.

"I can't stop now; if you have anything you wish to say you must say it later; I'm going to Miss Lindsay, she's waiting for me; and-I'm not feeling very well."

Why she added that last remark she did not know; a second after she wished it had been left unuttered-he fastened on it with such singular eagerness.

"You're not looking well-I've noticed it."

She was just about to hurry on, but there was something about the way in which he spoke which induced her to pause; something impertinent, which stung her, so that she regarded him with angry eyes, and replied to him with scorn.

"It's very good of you."

"I've noticed that you've not been looking well-ever since last Thursday."

This time he spoke with a significance which startled her, though she did not understand.

"Why since last Thursday?"

"I'll tell you. I was in the study when you were. After you had gone I found these three sovereigns. One was lying on the floor, and the other two were lodged on the shelves of the bookcase. And ever since then I've noticed that you've not been looking well."

A great horror was stealing over her, which she tried to get the better of, but failed. He regarded her with that impassive stare of his, which compelled her eyes to be fixed on his, whether they would or they would not.

"I-I don't know what you-what you mean."

It was strange how her voice trembled; his was steady enough, like the voice of doom.

"I'll explain. You remember last Thursday, the day on which the master was taken ill? I don't think you're ever likely to forget it. It occurred to me, after dinner, that the lamp had been left lighted, and the window open; so I went to put out the one and shut the other. When I got into the room, rather to my surprise, I found that the lamp was out, though the window was still open. As I stood there, in the darkness, I heard some one outside, coming along the terrace; presently you appeared at the open window. The moon was shining through the window, and you stood right in the moonshine, so that I saw you as plainly as if it had been daylight. But in the room it was darker; I expect that, coming in out of the moonlight, it seemed darker to you than it did to me. You didn't know I was there; I suppose that, being in a bit of a hurry, and with your thoughts all fixed on one thing, you took it for granted that the room was empty. It was rather funny-that's how it struck me at the time, and that's how it's struck me more than once; but perhaps that's because I've got a very keen eye for anything humorous.

"You went right across the room towards the oak bookcase which stands on the other side of the door, passing so close to me that I felt the wind of your skirts against my trousers as you passed, and I guessed that you knew what you were after before you came there, though I never guessed for a moment what it was. The bookcase was in the shadow, and mine not being cat's eyes, I couldn't see all that you were doing; but I could hear; and there are times when the sense of hearing conveys a good deal of information. I heard you takedown some of the books, then a rustling, then the chink of money. By that time you may be sure that I was all ears, and eyes-mine had almost become cat's eyes before you'd finished. I saw that you had something white in your hand, which I guessed was your pocket-handkerchief; and I partly saw, and partly heard, that you were shovelling coins on it which you were taking from one of the bookcase shelves. Either there were too many coins for such a small handkerchief-those handkerchiefs of yours are pretty, but they're small; I like one which is about the size of a towel-or else you were a little clumsy; you're not, as a rule, I know; I've often been struck by the natty way you have of doing things; but perhaps being in such a hurry made you a trifle nervous. Anyhow, as you're aware, you dropped some of the coins which you were putting into the handkerchief; I heard them fall, and so did you. You stooped to pick them up. I expected every second that you'd strike a match, or get a light somehow; in which case you'd have seen me, and it might have been funnier still. But you didn't. You felt, and felt, and felt; I take it that you thought you'd felt everywhere, and that as you could feel no more of the coins, that you'd picked up all you'd dropped. Presently, whether satisfied or not upon that point, you went out the way that you'd come in."

Mr. Morgan paused, and Miss Harding tried to breathe. It seemed to her that she was choking; that she was bound about as if with bands of iron. If there was anything peculiar in her appearance the butler made no comment; he went on in his easy, softly modulated tones.

"I heard you return along the terrace; I waited till I could hear no more of you; then I shut the window, and drew the curtains; then I lit the lamp, and with its aid I subjected the room to a careful examination, and in less than five seconds I found a sovereign on the floor by the bookcase, and then two more on the shelves. Here they are."

He again extended his hand, with the three shining discs on the open palm. She started back from them, gasping, as if they were dangerous things, of which she stood in physical terror.

"I've marked each coin-see? I want you to notice them carefully, so that you may recognize them, if you see them again." He held up one of the coins between his finger and thumb. "Of course when I found these I knew what had happened; understood it all-better even than you did. I knew some of the governor's little ways, which perhaps you didn't; a man in my position has to keep a sharp look-out; it's part of his duty-to himself. I knew all about the governor's habit of paying into his banking account three thousand pounds every quarter, in notes and gold, which Dr. Banyard has been telling you young ladies about, as if it was news; I'd seen the money on his table, that afternoon when I was helping to carry him away, the next day being his usual one for paying in, I knew what it was there for. He was a man of regular habits, was my late governor; though some of them were queer ones. There wasn't any of it left, except these three sovereigns which, in the dark, had escaped your notice. Because why? – because you'd taken the lot. I consider that a remarkable thing for any one to do, especially for a real young lady. Never before, in my experience, have I known the friend of the house take instant advantage of the host's sudden illness to play a game like that. Remarkable, I call it; most remarkable."

Each time that Mr. Morgan paused the girl before him gasped, as if the mere cessation of his speech removed from her some sense of constriction, which prevented the free play of her lungs.

"Don't suppose," he continued, with what he possibly intended to be affability, "that I am saying this to you in any unfriendly spirit; because I'm not-nothing of the kind. I've always felt that there was in you the makings of something remarkable, though I must admit that you've gone beyond my expectations. I've always liked you, Miss Harding; in fact, I've nearly more than liked you. I want you to understand that you've made of me what you might call an unintentional confidant; so why should there be any barriers between us? Socially there are none to speak of. Your father's a poor country parson, mine was a schoolmaster; there isn't much to choose between them; if I was asked I should say that I don't think much of either. Pecuniarily the advantage is all on my side, as I happen to know; and that in spite of the three thousand pounds you have of somebody else's. Very comfortable I could make a wife, if I had one; she'd be quite the lady. I've no complaint to make about your manner towards me in public; I humbly venture to hope that after this intimation of my friendly feeling towards you, you'll be even affable when we're alone together-if ever we are. It's all up with everything here; from what I happen to know, I shouldn't be surprised if the house, and all that's in it, was sold for what it will fetch in a surprisingly short space of time. Then we shall all be parted. Miss Lindsay will go her way-though I don't know what way that'll be; you'll go yours, and I shall go mine. This will be my last taste of service. When you meet me again afterwards you'll find me a perfect gentleman, whom you won't be a bit ashamed to introduce to your friends; and I assure you I'll do my best to earn their respect and esteem. I won't detain you any longer, Miss Harding-you'll understand that I had to speak to you; and that, situated as I am, I had to take the first chance that offered. Now you can go to Miss Lindsay with a mind at ease. If an opportunity offers you might inform her what a feeling of true sympathy there is for her in the servants' hall. It's very hard for a young lady, who has been brought up in the lap of luxury, to be all at once left with hardly clothes enough to cover her, because, between ourselves, that's what's going to happen to her; and down-stairs we earnestly trust, if I may use the language of metaphor, that her back will be broadened for the burden. There's many a young girl like her who has to earn her bread in ways I shouldn't like to mention; let's hope she won't come to any of those. You might mention, if you have the chance, that we all of us wish her the very best of luck."

With a slight inclination of his head, which might almost have been mistaken for a nod, Mr. Morgan went past her towards the staircase. She remained where he had left her, as if her feet were glued to the carpet. Her inclination would have been to return to her own bedroom; there she would at least be alone, to try to think; but the butler was between it and her. As she glanced in the direction of her room, looking over his shoulder he glanced towards her, and she ran towards Nora's room.

Without knocking she opened the door and entered; but so soon as she had crossed the threshold she stood motionless, as if all her limbs were locked together. Nora, seated on an arm-chair, was leaning on the sill of the open window, trying, in her own fashion, to find light in the darkness which threatened to encompass her round about; when she turned it seemed, from the expression which was on her face, as if she had found it. Certainly a stranger, observing the two girls, would have said that it was Elaine Harding who stood most in need of consolation; and so Nora seemed herself to think. That divine instinct which, in some people, wakes to life in the presence of suffering, was quick to perceive that here was trouble which was greater than hers. She held out her arms, crying-

"You poor child!"

It was enough; Elaine needed no further invitation. With eager, tremulous steps, and a cry which was half gasp, half sob, she went fluttering across the room, sinking in a heap at Nora's feet, pillowing her head upon her lap, crying as if the violence of her grief would tear her asunder. Smoothing her hair with her soft hands, stooping down and kissing her tenderly, using towards her all manner of endearments, Nora strove her utmost to assuage the passion of her woe, in seeming forgetfulness of how much she herself was in need of comfort. But Elaine was not to be consoled.