on the sunday morning nora went to church alone. miss harding, who did not appear at breakfast, sent word that she had a headache and hoped that nora would excuse her; which nora was glad to do; she preferred to go alone.
for the first time for some days the sky was overcast; the sun was hidden, as if the clerk of the weather desired to show that he was in sympathy with the girl's feelings. certainly the girl's mood was not a sunny one. the church was distant from the house about a mile. the way to it was through the grounds; along a footpath through the wood, across farmer snelling's thirty-acre field, into the copse on the other side, where the first daffodils were always found; when you were out of the copse almost in front of you was the rectory lane; a hundred yards along the lane, turn sharply to the left, there was the lych-gate under which, aforetime, more parish coffins rested than men had count of. as she went the familiar way, amid the many evidences of the hasting spring, the spirit of the morning seemed to enter into her, so that, as she passed into the church, and knelt where she had knelt so many times in happier days, the peace of god came into her soul and she knew, with an abiding sense of comfort, that indeed all things are in his hands.
she never forgot that morning's service; the last at which she was privileged to be a worshipper in what she had thought would always be, in a special sense, her own church; the memory was with her, as a sweet savour, in the still darker days which were to come. it was palm sunday, for easter was late that year; the hour of the church's mourning was close at hand; the appointed service for the day seemed to be peculiarly suited to her own case; before it was at an end her thoughts ceased to be centred on herself; her head, and her heart, were both abased before a sorrow that was greater than hers.
when she came out, at the close of service, she was surrounded by people, villagers and others, for there was not a creature in the parish, good or bad, high or low, with whom she was not on terms of intimacy; unconsciously she illustrated the doctrine that--
"he prayeth best who loveth best
all things, both great and small;
for the dear god who loveth us,
he made and loveth all."
they had all a word of sympathy to offer, crude words some of them were, but she knew that all of them were well meant, and that was something; what was hidden from her, and from them, was knowledge of the fact that to most of those who clustered round her, and who waylaid her as she went, the words which were uttered were words of farewell; that before another sunday came round she was to be parted from them as by a great sea. at the church porch, in the rectory lane, in the copse across farmer snelling's field, she found some one who had at least a word to say; sometimes it was an ancient, sometimes a toddling child. she had gained the stile which one had to climb to get into the wood before she was able to feel that the last of the interviewers was done with; she did not guess that on the other side of that stile lurked the most irrepressible of them all.
although there was a right of way through the wood it was one which was seldom used, except by the household at cloverlea; and how often they went that way was shown by the untrodden moss which almost hid the track. and yet it was a pleasant wood, and an inviting path; it had only to be followed a very little way, there were delicious nooks and dells. most of the trees were old, and many of them were stately; yet they were excellent company, if one chanced to be alone. as nora had found, many a time. she loved that wood; it was to her as a dear friend; so often had she come to it to dream, waking dreams, and to be alone in it, with her joys. the season, that year, was early. the chestnuts--there were not many in the wood, only about a dozen, but they were all fine trees--were already nearly in full leaf; the elms were showing green; there was promise of green upon the beeches; only the oaks were still bare; in all the wood, somewhere, was the gleam and glow and glory of that lustrous, delicate, fleeting green which is spring's greatest marvel. and though the sun still was hidden, she felt how beautiful it was, and how good to be in it there alone; until she came upon a man who was leaning against a tree, the finest chestnut in the wood, the splendour of whose leafing branches formed a canopy above him.
the man was robert spencer; the tree was just round a bend in the path, so that she was almost up against him before she had the faintest notion that any one was there. to judge from her demeanour the sight of him alarmed her; she drew back with a half-stifled cry, staring at him as if he were some dangerous thing. he, on his side, was all smiles, as if he was very conscious that she was the pleasantest thing he had seen that day. he held out both hands, with his cap in one.
"nora! at last! i was afraid you were never coming!"
there was no mistake about the joyous ring which was in his voice. on her part she seemed not to know what to say, or do, or make of him, as if his presence there was a possibility of which she had never dreamed.
"mr. spencer, you--you ought not to be here; i--i must beg of you to let me pass."
"why, my dear nora, of course i'll let you pass; do you suppose i want to block the way? but why do you call me mr. spencer? and why do you keep out of kissing distance? do you know how long it is since i had a kiss? and how often of late i've pictured the delicious moment in which i was to have another? nora!"
the colours chased each other across her cheeks in rainbow hues; she strove her utmost to look dignified; but, to his thinking, she only looked more delightful; her very severity he thought became her.
"mr. spencer, you--you have no right to talk to me like this. you have had my letter----"
"your letter? what letter?"
"the one i sent you yesterday; it ought to have been delivered this morning."
"it wasn't; i've had no letter of yours which you sent me yesterday; where did you send it? to what address?"
"i addressed it to you at holtye."
"then that's why i've not had it; possibly i never shall have it. you rushed off in such a flurry, before i could speak a word to you, that i had no chance to tell you that i wasn't staying at holtye."
"not staying at holtye? then where are you staying?"
"at the 'unicorn,' i've taken a room there; it's only another illustration of the truth of what i've so often told you, the more haste the worse speed. i can see now that you'd go tearing off if i'd let you; but i won't. i want to explain."
"i--i'd rather you explained through the post."
"then i wouldn't; and i'm not going to. when people wish to understand each other in matters of real importance i hold that they'd better do so face to face; i've no faith in pen and ink; microbes breed in ink-bottles, which breed all sorts of misconceptions. now i can see that you're rushing at your fences again. you're taking it for granted that i wish to speak to you on one subject, when i principally wish to speak to you about your father. i want to tell you something about him which you ought to know."
"what is it?"
her voice was faint, as if she felt that unfair engines of war were being used against her.
"your father hoped that we should marry; he knew that i loved you, and would always love you; and he thought you loved me, and would always love me; and therefore----"
"what were you going to tell me about my father?"
she perceived that he was trenching on dangerous ground, and tried to get him off it; he came off with much agility.
"i met him on the morning on which i was starting for cairo----"
"you never told me."
"i had an idea that he didn't wish me to mention that i'd met him, so i didn't. we lunched together; he gave me a most excellent lunch----"
"i'm glad he gave you an excellent lunch."
"there, nora! that's much more like you! thank you! it was an excellent lunch; it was after lunch he said he hoped that we should marry, because, as i have already observed, he knew that----"
"yes; we'll take that for granted; please go on."
"i'm going on as fast as ever i can; but it'll only be another case of more haste worse speed if you won't let me tell my tale my own way, because, if i don't, i'm nearly sure to leave out essential details. among other things he remarked that, one day, you'd be a rich young woman."
"you're sure he said that?"
"quite; your father could express himself clearly enough if he chose; and he expressed himself clearly then."
"but--i don't understand."
"wait a bit; i'm going to make you understand, if you'll have a little patience. later, i cannot say that he said so clearly, but he intimated, that he obtained his income from some business with which he was connected, and which represented to him a large sum of money."
"business! i didn't know that he had anything to do with any business."
"mind, he didn't state definitely that he had; and i asked no questions, but that was what he hinted. then he said something which, in the light of recent events, appears to me to have been rather remarkable. he observed that life was always uncertain; that one could never tell the hour when one would die, and that, therefore, since i was going to be the husband of his only child, he would like to place in my hands directions as to what he would desire to have done, in case death took him unawares; or before he completed certain arrangements which he then had in view."
"what a strange thing for him to say!"
"you see how necessary it was that i should see you face to face, and how difficult it would have been to put this on to paper? nora, i love you!"
"are you--are you really telling me what my father said?"
"i'm going to tell you everything he said, if you'll give me time enough; only don't suppose for a moment that you're going to keep me from saying that i love you; especially as it was because he knew i loved you, and believed that you loved me, that he told me what he did."
"i--i wish you'd go on."
"after i'd been a few days in cairo there came a package in which there was a note from him; a brief and characteristic note, to this effect. 'dear robert,' you see he called me robert." he paused, as if to challenge her. "nora, i wish you'd call me robert; it's a stupid, ugly, vulgar, clumsy name, but you don't know how i long to hear it on your lips."
"i--i don't know that it's any of the things you say it is; i--i don't know that there's anything particularly the matter with the name."
"that's very sweet of you."
"but i don't think it's either fair or kind of you to try to take advantage of me like this!"
"take advantage of you! is your sense of justice so warped that you can say a thing like that! in what sense am i supposed to be trying to take advantage of you, nora?"
"you're pretending to tell me about my father, and--and you keep trying to tell me about other things instead."
"the only tie which bound me to your father, the only reason he had for placing his confidence in me, was his knowledge of my love for you."
"very well; if you like we'll take that for granted----"
"i don't like."
"tell me what was in the note!"
"'dear robert, referring to our conversation of' such and such a date; at this moment i can't give it you exactly----"
"it doesn't matter."
"'you will find in envelope enclosed herewith the instructions of which i spoke. it is understood that it is only to be opened in the event of my demise; and that, should i for any reason whatever desire its return, you will at once hand it me intact. in acknowledging kindly state that you understand.--faithfully yours, donald lindsay.' that was the note. with it was a sealed envelope, inscribed, 'to robert spencer. not to be opened until after my death.--donald lindsay.'"
"and have you opened it?"
"that's the gist and point of the whole affair--i haven't it."
"i don't understand; i thought you said----"
"i did say. what's that?"
mr. spencer's question referred to a sound like the rustling of bushes.
"it's only a rabbit, or a hare."
"it must be a large specimen of either animal, and an awkward one, to make a noise like that."
"what were you going to say?"
"i placed the sealed envelope in my suit-case, together with my other most valuable possessions; which, with the exception of some of your dear letters, were worth about twopence; at the moment i'd nowhere else to put it. when i left, the suitcase was placed, with my other luggage, on the train, and, i presumed, transferred from the train to the boat; yet, when i went down to my cabin, after the boat was fairly off, the suit-case wasn't there."
"what had become of it?"
"that's the problem which i have still to solve, and which i'm going to solve. either it was left behind at my aunt's, which she denies, or it was left on the train, which the railway company denies, or it was taken by mistake to somebody else's cabin, which every one denies, or it was stolen, of which i haven't the faintest proof. anyhow, it was, and, at present, it isn't; as yet that's as far as i've got."
"then my father's letter to you is lost."
"but it's not going to continue lost; i have lost things before, but i'm not going to lose the only thing i ever had worth losing; i've a ridiculous sort of fatalistic feeling that, as matters have chanced, if i lose that letter--really, and truly, and finally lose it--i may lose you; you don't suppose i'm going to sit down quietly and endure that loss with equanimity? you don't know me, my lady, if you do. what is that? don't tell me that that's either a rabbit or a hare."
"perhaps it's a fox."
"foxes don't set the whole countryside in a clatter when they start moving; they're of much too retiring a nature. it's some one making off through the bushes, that's who it is. hi! you there, who are you?"
there was no reply to his call.
"perhaps it was some one who came upon us unexpectedly, and--and didn't wish to disturb us."
"perhaps so; we're obliged to his taste for self-effacement if it is."
"i suppose you've no idea what was in the envelope."
"i've been putting two and two together, and i've formed a hypothesis which i'm convinced can't be very far out. your father was not a man to say the thing which is not."
"i'm sure of it."
"i also; he did not say you would be a rich woman without cause. the hypothesis i've deduced is this. your father was a gentleman of the old school; he didn't like commerce; he didn't wish people to think that he had anything to do with commerce; yet all the while he was drawing his income from a business with which he had probably been associated more or less unwillingly. at the time i saw him he was making arrangements to dispose of it; whether or not they were completed i cannot say; that envelope contains the clue. when he spoke of the suddenness of death he was possibly aware that he had a congenital predisposition towards the end which was actually his; and that envelope contained the secret--which he was even perilously anxious to preserve in life--of what was the source of his income, and of the fortune which he had built up for you."
"all this, of course, is surmise."
"you know it's more than surmise; you know that you're a rich woman, as you stand there."
"i know, from the only facts which as yet are established, that, at present, i'm a pauper."
"well, we're both of us paupers; all the better."
"i don't agree."
"you're taking your cue from my mother."
"i should prove myself very foolish if i need take such a cue from any one."
"there's a wisdom of the foolish which is sometimes wonderful. if you were to marry me tomorrow----"
"as if i should!"
"you'd make my fortune!"
"when, as you've told me again and again, you live on charity; and directly you married me that charity would stop?"
"i know a way by which i could earn two or three hundred a year right off; before long i'd be earning thousands; i'm not incapable, i only need a spur; to work for the woman i love! i ask for nothing better. if i marry a woman with money the probability is that i should never earn a penny."
"no, but you'd earn a name for yourself instead; one can earn something better than money."
"may be."
"and she'd be proud of you."
"even supposing that you're not buttering me up----"
"as if i would!"
"as if you would! as if you haven't done it over and over again! i know! i say, even granting i'm a swan of the very finest plumage----"
"mr. spencer!"
"miss lindsay; since you will interrupt me; and will descend to surnames; though, nora, you're a darling."
"it's no use our indulging in abstract discussions. i've no doubt you'll be able to clothe charming sentiments in the very best language. i know how clever you are."
"thanks very much."
"but what's the use, since my mind's made up that i won't marry you while i'm a pauper?"
"acting on my mother's instructions."
"if you like to put it that way; though i wouldn't even if your mother hadn't interposed; if i'd thought i was going to be a pauper i'd never have said i would."
"although you love me?"
"because i love you."
"nora! you're going to make a mess of things."
"i'm going to try not to make a mess of things."
"you're starting the wrong way."
"listen. i don't think you've behaved well about that envelope my father sent you."
"do you imagine that i think i have? do i look it? how my countenance belies me!"
"there appear to have been some letters of mine in that suit-case; i didn't think you'd have left my letters lying about."
"nora!"
"you seem to have left the suit-case lying about, so i suppose you left my letters too."
"of all the--of all the----! well, i deserve it."
"i think you do. when you find that envelope you can come and show me what is in it; until then--good-bye."
"do you mean that?"
"i hope that i am like my father in not saying what i don't mean; i do mean it."
"i'll find that envelope!"
"and i hope you'll find my letters."
"i'll find them too."
"i hope there was nothing in them very--very amusing; it isn't nice to feel that strangers are reading one's--one's private letters."
"you rub it in."
"that's not my intention; would you like to feel that people you know nothing about were reading some of the letters you wrote to me?'
"i know what you mean; i'll find the letters and the envelope, and the suit-case; and if any one has opened that suit-case i'll--i'll make them smart."
"good-bye."
already she was moving off; he exclaimed--"like that! nora! won't you even give me your hand?"
she stopped, and turned; with something on her face which, in his eyes, made her very beautiful.
"if you'll promise only to take my hand."
"i promise; i'll take only what you're willing to give." they stood, for some seconds, hand in hand, eyes looking into eyes, as if they found it difficult to speak. then he said, "don't suppose i don't think you're right; i know you're doing this for me, and i know you're always right. this good-bye is only the prelude to a time of waiting, and hope, and work. first of all i'll find that envelope, then if there's nothing in it to show that you're a millionaire, i'm going to work and be a millionaire--i'll win you in my own way. i'm not afraid of waiting; you'll not marry any one but me."
"i don't think i shall."
"i don't think you will either."
"there's something i'd like to ask, if you won't misunderstand."
"i'll not misunderstand."
"i'd like to kiss you before i go, only--i don't want you to kiss me."
"nora!"
she moved closer to him, and, while he stood still, she touched her lips to his, a butterfly kiss, then, turning, went quickly down the path. he stood and watched her as she went.
