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.
