CHAPTER X
THE EARL AND THE COUNTESS
Events moved quickly; as, at certain crises of our lives, they have a knack of doing. During twenty years very little had really happened to Nora; in a few crowded, bewildering days for her the whole world was turned upside down. On the Friday-the day after the funeral-Nora told Dr. Banyard that she was inclined to be of his opinion, that the creditors had better be called together, and matters left in their hands. She did not tell him that her faith in her father remained unshaken. It was made clear to her that this was a question of hours, possibly even of minutes, if something was not done to appease the creditors at once then the worst would befall; it was no use delivering herself of pious expressions of faith when action was required. So she authorized the doctor to do his best for her, and left everything to his discretion.
Throughout that day she was puzzled by the singularity of Miss Harding's behaviour; she had cares enough of her own to occupy her mind, yet she could not help but notice that there was something very strange the matter with Elaine. The young lady's outburst of the evening before had not been explained. All day long she was in a state of nervous tremor which was almost hysterical; such conduct was unusual in Elaine, who had been wont to laugh at the idea both of nerves and of hysterics. Nora did not know what to make of her. So far as she could gather, from the cryptic utterances which the girl now and then let fall, she was troubled about three things. First, because of the poverty which apparently was in store for Nora; then because of the various amounts, which together did not amount to a very large sum, and most of which, to tell the truth, the creditor had herself forgotten, in which she was indebted to Nora; and, in the third part, because of a nebulous scheme she had for endowing Nora with unnamed, but seemingly immense supplies of ready money. It was this scheme which, apparently, was worrying her more than anything else; though what it really was, was beyond Nora's comprehension. Elaine talked-vaguely, it is true, but passionately, none the less-of being in possession of funds which Nora knew perfectly well she never had had, and probably never would have; and about which she waxed quite warm when Nora smilingly asked if she was quite sure she was not dreaming.
"You're not to laugh!" she cried. "You're not to laugh! You are to have it! you shall have it!"
"I shall have what?"
"The money I'm telling you about!"
"But what money are you telling me about? Elaine, you don't seriously wish me to believe that you have money. Only this week you were crying because of what you said you owed me; though I say you owe me nothing, since all that has been between us has been for love's sake. And only last week you told me that your pockets were empty, and you didn't know where you were going to get something to put in them; don't you remember?"
"But I may know where money is!"
"Yes, and so may I; there's money in the bank, but it's neither yours nor mine; and I'm sure-don't you know I'm sure? you must be a goose if you don't-that you've no more idea how, honestly, it's to be wooed and won than I have; so what's the use of our pretending?"
To the speaker's surprise Miss Harding glared at her for some moments in silence; then, as if in sudden rage, she flung herself out of the room without a word; sounds were audible as if she were sobbing as she went.
"What," inquired Nora of herself, not by any means for the first time that day, "can be the matter with Elaine?"
On the Saturday the storm broke on her from a quarter for which, at the moment, she was unprepared. Word had been brought that the Earl and Countess of Mountdennis were in the drawing-room, waiting to see her. Her first impulse was to send an excuse; the mere announcement of their presence made her conscious of a sinking heart; but it was not her way to excuse herself because she feared unpleasantness; second thoughts prevailed. She recognized that, from their point of view, they were entitled to see her, even in these first days of her bereavement. She needed none to tell her that the purport of their presence was not likely to be an agreeable one; that they probably had not come upon an errand of love; she had too shrewd a notion of their characters. Under the circumstances the last thing she might expect from them was sympathy; she was aware that they had a standard of their own; and that according to that the more a person stood in need of sympathy the less likely they were to vouchsafe it. Still they were Robert's parents; it was for her to consider him rather than herself; so, for the first time since her father was taken ill she ventured into the drawing-room.
The frigidity of the reception which they accorded her was ominous; she knew at once that so far from having deserved their sympathy she had incurred their displeasure. The last time they had met they had both of them taken her, not only metaphorically, but literally, to their bosoms; showering oh her tokens of affection which erred, if anything, on the side of redundance. Now the lady permitted her to touch a fish-like hand, taking care not to allow her to approach too near; while the gentleman merely bowed. It was he who spoke first, as if he were addressing some one whose behaviour had both pained and shocked him.
"We only learnt this morning, actually by the merest accident, that your father was not only dead, but buried."
"Not only dead but buried!"
This was the Countess. It was a standing joke that, if they were both engaged in the same conversation, when he did not echo her she echoed him. If they ever differed it must have been in private; in public their agreement was so complete as sometimes to approach almost to the verge of the exasperating.
"We were not even aware that your father was unwell; we had received positively no information on the subject whatever."
"Positively none whatever!"
"It seems to me-to us-a most extraordinary thing that you should not have apprised us of the condition of your father's health; that you should have given us no intimation of any kind; that you should have kept us in utter ignorance."
"In utter ignorance!"
"May I ask, may we ask, Miss Lindsay, why you have not treated us with at least some approximation to that consideration which our position obviously demanded?"
"Our position obviously demanded!"
"To begin with, it was all very sudden; and then I didn't know where you were.
"But you might have made inquiries, anybody would have told you; almost, one might say, the first person you met in the street. We are not the kind of people who hide ourselves in holes."
"No, not in holes!"
"The moment we learnt what had occurred-learnt, as I have observed, by the sheerest accident, – we rushed back to Holtye, that very moment; though to do so involved us in the most serious inconvenience; but we had no option."
"We had no option."
"Because, not only were we informed, by accident, that your father was dead and buried, but we were also told, at the same time, what struck us as being so surprising as to be almost incredible, that he had not left behind him even so much as a sixpence."
"Not even so much as a sixpence!"
"You will remember, Miss Lindsay-that is, I take it for granted that information was given to you to that effect, that before sanctioning my-our-son Robert's engagement to you I made a special point of calling upon your father, who then and there informed, I may say, assured, me that, on the occasion of your marriage, he would present you with a house and furniture, and settle on you five thousand pounds a year. On the strength of that positive and definite assurance I-we-gave our consent, which, without it, we never should have dreamt of doing. We have our duty to perform, not only to our son, but to ourselves, and I may say, to our family, of which we are the representatives; I therefore offer no excuse for taking advantage of the first opportunity which arises to ask if your father has left his affairs in a condition which will enable you to carry out that assurance. On behalf of the Countess of Mountdennis, and of myself, I beg you, Miss Lindsay, in answering that question, to be perfectly plain and perfectly candid."
"Perfectly plain and perfectly candid!"
The Earl, very tall, very straight, very thin, waved his hard felt hat in one hand, and his gold-knobbed malacca cane in the other, in a manner which was hardly so impressive as he perhaps intended; the Countess, her gloved hands clasped in front of her, wagged not only her head, but her whole body, as if to punctuate, and notify her approval, of his remarks as they fell from him. Nora was silent. At the back of her mind had been the consciousness that, sooner or later, this question would have to be confronted; but she had not anticipated that it would be addressed to her so suddenly, so brusquely, with such a stand-and-deliver air. When she began to speak her lips were tremulous; and, though she might not have been aware of it, her eyes were moist; the feeling was strong upon her how different it all was from what she had expected.
"I-I'm sorry to say that, so far as we have been able to ascertain, the state of my father's affairs is not-not altogether satisfactory."
It was the Countess who took up the running then; the Earl who played the part of echo; but as her volubility was much greater than his she did not give him so many opportunities to shine as he had given her.
"Not altogether satisfactory! my good young woman, what do you mean? I suppose all ideas of a house and furniture and five thousand a year must be given up, though your father led us to expect that there would be much more than that after he was dead; but the Earl has asked you a plain question and what we want is a plain answer; how much has he left you? If you can't give us the exact sum let's have it approximately, in pounds, shillings and pence."
"I'm afraid that I'm not yet in a position which enables me to do that."
"Not in a position? what do you mean, you're not in a position? are you in a position to say that he has left you anything, except debts?"
"I'm certain that when he said he had that money he had it; I believe he was a rich man when he died. Only he was very reserved; and, in consequence, we have not been able to find where the money is."
"Stuff and nonsense! you'd have found the money if there'd been any to find; it's only when there is none that none's found! Have you any sort of solid foundation for thinking that he did leave money?"
"He gave me to understand that I should be left well off; and I can't believe he would have done so if it had not been true."
"Some people can't believe anything; I know a woman who can't believe that her husband committed murder, though he was found guilty on the clearest possible evidence, confessed his guilt, and was hung ten years ago. Husbands and wives can't exist on the incomes they believe they have; tradesmen want coin of the realm. I'm informed that by the time everything's sold, and everything will have to be sold, and the debts paid, there'll be nothing left for you; I want you to tell me, plainly, please, if that's true."
At last the Earl had his chance.
"Yes, plainly, please, if that's true!"
"I am afraid that, as matters stand at present, it does seem as if it were likely to be true."
The Countess, putting up her lorgnettes, surveyed her fixedly, and severely.
"You must allow me to remark, Miss Lindsay, that you have a way of fencing with a plain question which, under the circumstances, seems peculiar, and which compels me to wonder if it can be possible that you knowingly obtained my son's consent to marry you under false pretences."
At this Nora did fire up.
"How dare you say such a thing! I did not obtain his consent, he obtained mine."
"We know very well what that means. I have not arrived at my time of life without understanding what are the wiles with which a young woman of no position lures a handsome young fellow of good family; I have not the slightest doubt that my son would never have asked you to be his wife had you not made it quite clear to him that you wished him to."
Nora stood up; one could see that the colour kept coming and going in her cheeks; that she was trembling; that she seemed to be panting for breath.
"I-I think you'd better go."
The Countess went calmly on; the girl's agitation seemed to make the elder woman calmer, and more corrosive.
"I am going when it suits me; I assure you I have no wish to stay a moment longer in this abode of misrepresentation than I am compelled to. But before I go I wish to appeal to your sense of decency, if you have any sense of decency-"
"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."