CHAPTER XVI
Constance Bledlow stepped out of the Bletchley train into the crowdedOxford station. Annette was behind her. As they made their way towardsthe luggage van, Connie saw a beckoning hand and face. They belonged toNora Hooper, and in another minute Connie found herself taken possessionof by her cousin. Nora was deeply sunburnt. Her colour was more garishlyred and brown, her manner more trenchant than ever. At sight of Connieher face flushed with a sudden smile, as though the owner of the facecould not help it. Yet they had only been a few minutes together beforeConnie had discovered that, beneath the sunburn, there was a look oftension and distress, and that the young brown eyes, usually so brightand bold, were dulled with fatigue. But to notice such things in Norawas only to be scorned. Connie held her tongue.
"Can't you leave Annette to bring the luggage, and let us walk up?" saidNora.
Connie assented, and the two girls were soon in the long and generallycrowded street leading to the Cornmarket. Nora gave rapidly a littlenecessary information. Term had just begun, and Oxford was "dreadfullyfull." She had got another job of copying work at the Bodleian, forwhich she was being paid by the University Press, and what with that andthe work for her coming exam, she was "pretty driven." But that was whatsuited her. Alice and her mother were "all right."
"And Uncle Ewen?" said Connie.
Nora paused a moment.
"Well, you won't think he looks any the better for his holiday," shesaid at last, with an attempt at a laugh. "And of course he's doing tentimes too much work. Hang work! I loathe work: I want to 'do nothingforever and ever.'"
"Why don't you set about it then?" laughed Connie.
"Because--" Nora began impetuously; and then shut her lips. She divergedto the subject of Mr. Pryce. They had not seen or heard anything of himfor weeks, she said, till he had paid them an evening call, the nightbefore, the first evening of the new term.
Connie interrupted.
"Oh, but that reminds me," she said eagerly, "I've got an awfully niceletter--to-day--from Lord Glaramara. Mr. Pryce is to go up and see him."
Nora whistled.
"You have! Well, that settles it. He'll now graciously allow himself topropose. And then we shall all pretend to be greatly astonished. Alicewill cry, and mother will say she 'never expected to lose her daughterso soon.' What a humbug everybody is!" said the child, bitterly, withmore emphasis than grammar.
"But suppose he doesn't get anything!" cried Connie, alarmed at such asudden jump from the possible to the certain.
"Oh, but he will! He's the kind of person that gets things," said Noracontemptuously. "Well, we wanted a bit of good news!"
Connie jumped at the opening.
"Dear Nora!--have things been going wrong? You look awfully tired. Dotell me!"
Nora checked herself at once. "Oh, not much more than usual," she saidrepellently. "And what about you, Connie? Aren't you very bored to becoming back here, after all your grand times?"
They had emerged into the Corn. Before them, was the old Church of St.Mary Magdalen, and the modern pile of Balliol. In the distance stretchedthe Broad, over which the October evening was darkening fast; theSheldonian in the far distance, with its statued railing; and the gatesof Trinity on the left. The air was full of bells, and the streets ofundergraduates; a stream of young men taking fresh possession, as itwere, of the grey city, which was their own as soon as they chose tocome back to it. The Oxford damp, the Oxford mist, was everywhere,pierced by lamps, and window-lights, and the last red of astormy sunset.
Connie drew in her breath.
"No, I am not sorry, I am very glad to be back--though my aunts havebeen great dears to me."
"I'll bet anything Annette isn't glad to be back--after the Langmoors!"said Nora grimly.
Connie laughed.
"She'll soon settle in. What do you think?" She slipped her arm into hercousin's. "I'm coming down to breakfast!"
"You're not! I never heard such nonsense! Why should you?"
Connie sighed.
"I think I must begin to do something."
"Do something! For goodness' sake, don't!" Nora's voice was fierce. "Idid think you might be trusted!"
"To carry out your ideals? So kind of you!"
"If you take to muddling about with books and lectures and wearing uglyclothes, I give you up," said Nora firmly.
"Nora, dear, I'm the most shocking ignoramus. Mayn't I learn something?"
"Mr. Sorell may teach you Greek. I don't mind that."
Connie sighed again, and Nora stole a look at the small pale face underthe sailor hat. It seemed to her that her cousin had somehow grownbeautiful in these months of absence. On her arrival in May, Connie'sgood looks had been a freakish and variable thing, which could be oftenand easily disputed. She could always make a certain brilliant orbizarre effect, by virtue of her mere slenderness and delicacy, combinedwith the startling beauty of her eyes and hair. But the touch ofsarcasm, of a half-hostile remoteness, in her look and manner, wereoften enough to belie the otherwise delightful impression of firstyouth, to suggest something older and sharper than her twenty years hadany right to be. It meant that she had been brought up in a world ofelder people, sharing from her teens in its half-amused, half-scepticaljudgments of men and things. Nothing was to be seen of it in her rousedmoments of pleasure or enthusiasm; at other times it jarred, as thoughone caught a glimpse of autumn in the spring.
But since she and Nora had last met, something had happened. Some heatof feeling or of sympathy had fused in her the elements of being; sothat a more human richness and warmth, a deeper and tenderer charmbreathed from her whole aspect. Nora, though so much the younger, hadhitherto been the comforter and sustainer of Connie; now for the firsttime, the tired girl felt an impulse--firmly held back--to throw herarms round Connie's neck and tell her own troubles.
She did not betray it, however. There were so many things she wanted toknow. First--how was it that Connie had come back so soon? Noraunderstood there were invitations to the Tamworths and others. Mr.Sorell had reported that the Langmoors wished to carry their niece withthem on a round of country-house visits in the autumn, and that Conniehad firmly stuck to it that she was due at Oxford for the beginningof term.
"Why didn't you go," said Nora, half scoffing--"with all those frockswasting in the drawers?"
Connie retorted that, as for parties, Oxford, had seemed to her in thesummer term the most gay and giddy place she had ever been in, and thatshe had always understood that in the October and Lent terms peopledined out every night.
"But all the same--one can think a little here," she said slowly.
"You didn't care a bit about that when you first came!" cried Nora. "Youdespised us because we weren't soldiers, or diplomats, or politicians.You thought we were a little priggish, provincial world where nothingmattered. You were sorry for us because we had only books and ideas!"
"I wasn't!" said Connie indignantly. "Only I didn't think Oxford waseverything--and it isn't! Nora!"--she looked round the Oxford streetwith a sudden ardour, her eyes running over the groups ofundergraduates hurrying back to hall--"do you think these English boyscould ever--well, fight--and die--for what you call ideas--for theircountry--as Otto Radowitz could die for Poland?"
"Try them!" The reply rang out defiantly. Connie laughed.
"They'll never have the chance. Who'll ever attack England? If we hadonly something--something splendid, and not too far away!--to look backupon, as the Italians look back on Garibaldi--or to long and to sufferfor, as the Poles long and suffer for Poland!"
"We shall some day!" said Nora hopefully. "Mr. Sorell says every nationgets its turn to fight for its life. I suppose Otto Radowitz has beentalking Poland to you?"
"He talks it--and he lives it," said Connie, with emphasis. "It'smarvellous!--it shames one."
Nora shrugged her shoulders.
"But what can he do--with his poor hand! You know Mr. Sorell has taken acottage for him at Boar's Hill--above Hinksey?"
&nb
sp; Yes, Connie knew. She seemed suddenly on her guard.
"But he can't live alone?" said Nora. "Who on earth's going to lookafter him?"
Connie hesitated. Down a side street she perceived the stately front ofMarmion, and at the same moment a tall man emerging from the duskcrossed the street and entered the Marmion gate. Her heart leapt. No!Absurd! He and Otto had not arrived yet. But already the Oxford dark,and the beautiful Oxford distances were peopled for her with visions andprophecies of hope. The old and famous city, that had seen so muchyouth bloom and pass, spoke magic things to her with its wise,friendly voice.
Aloud, she said--
"You haven't heard? Mr. Falloden's going to live with him."
Nora stopped in stupefaction.
"_What?_"
Connie repeated the information--adding--
"I dare say Mr. Sorell didn't speak of it to you, because--he hates it."
"I suppose it's just a theatrical _coup_," said Nora, passionately, asthey walked on--"to impress the public."
"It isn't!--it isn't anything of the kind. And Otto had only to say no."
"It's ridiculous!--preposterous! They'll clash all day long."
Connie replied with difficulty, as though she had so pondered anddiscussed this matter with herself that every opinion about it seemedequally reasonable.
"I don't think so. Otto wishes it."
"But why--but _why_?" insisted Nora. "Oh, Connie!--as if DouglasFalloden could look after anybody but himself!"
Then she repented a little. Connie smiled, rather coldly.
"He looked after his father," she said quietly. "I told you all that inmy letters. And you forget how it was--that he and Otto came across eachother again."
Nora warmly declared that she had not forgotten it, but that it did notseem to her to have anything to do with the extraordinary proposal thatthe man more responsible than any one else for the maiming--possiblyfor the death--of Otto Radowitz, if all one heard about him were true,should be now installed as his companion and guardian during thesecritical months.
She talked with obvious and rather angry common sense, as one who hadnot passed her eighteenth birthday for nothing.
But Connie fell silent. She would not discuss it, and Nora was obligedto let the subject drop.
* * * * *
Mrs. Hooper, whose pinched face had grown visibly older, received herhusband's niece with an evident wish to be kind. Alice, too, was almostaffectionate, and Uncle Ewen came hurrying out of his study to greether. But Connie had not been an hour in the house before she hadperceived that everybody in it was preoccupied and unhappy; unless,indeed, it were Alice, who had evidently private thoughts of her own,which, to a certain extent, released her from the family worries.
What was the matter? She was determined to know.
It happened that she and Alice went up to bed together. Nora had beencloseted with her father in the little schoolroom on the ground floor,since nine o'clock, and when Connie proposed to look in and wish themgood night, Alice said uncomfortably--
"Better not. They're--they're very busy."
Connie ruminated. At the top of the stairs, she turned--
"Look here--do come in to me, and have a talk!"
Alice agreed, after a moment's hesitation. There had never been anybeginnings of intimacy between her and Connie, and she took Connie'sadvance awkwardly.
The two girls were however soon seated in Connie's room, where a blazingfire defied the sudden cold of a raw and bleak October. The light dancedon Alice's beady black eyes, and arched brows, on her thin but very redlips, on the bright patch of colour in each cheek. She was more thanever like a Watteau sketch in black chalk, heightened with red, and thedress she wore, cut after the pattern of an eighteenth-century sacque,according to an Oxford fashion of that day, fell in admirably with thenatural effect. Connie had very soon taken off her tea-gown, loosenedand shaken out her hair, and put on a white garment in which she felt atease. Alice noticed, as Nora had done, that Connie was fast becoming abeauty; but whether the indisputable fact was to be welcomed or resentedhad still to be decided.
Connie had no sooner settled herself on the small sofa she had managedto fit into her room than she sprang up again.
"Stupid!--where are those letters!" She rummaged in various drawers andbags, hit upon what she wanted, after an impetuous hunt, and returnedto the fire.
"Do you know I think Mr. Pryce has a good chance of that post? I gotthis to-day."
She held out a letter, smiling. Alice flushed and took it. It was fromLord Glaramara, and it concerned that same post in the ConservativeCentral Office on which Herbert Pryce had had his eyes for some time.The man holding it had been "going" for months, but was now, at last,gone. The post was vacant, and Connie, who had a pretty natural turnfor wire-pulling, fostered by her Italian bringing up, had been tryingher hand, both with the Chancellor and her Uncle Langmoor.
"You little intriguer!" wrote Lord Glaramara--"I will do what I can.Your man sounds very suitable. If he isn't, I can tell you plainly hewon't get the post. Neither political party can afford to employ foolsjust now. But if he is what you say--well, we shall see! Send him up tosee me, at the House of Lords, almost any evening next week. He'll haveto take his chance, of course, of finding me free. If I cotton to him,I'll send him on to somebody else. And--_don't talk about it!_ Yourletter was just like your mother. She had an art of doing these things!"
Alice read and reread the note. When she looked up from it, it was witha rather flustered face.
"Awfully good of you, Connie! May I show it--to Mr. Pryce?"
"Yes--but get it back. Tell him to write to Lord Glaramara to-morrow.Well, now then"--Connie discovered and lit a cigarette, the sight ofwhich stirred in Alice a kind of fascinated disapproval,--"now then,tell me what's the matter!--why Uncle Ewen looks as if he hadn't had aday's rest since last term, and Nora's so glum--and why he and she gositting up at night together when they ought to be in their beds?"
Connie's little woman-of-the-world air--very evident in thisspeech--which had always provoked Alice in their earlier acquaintance,passed now unnoticed. Miss Hooper sat perplexed and hesitating, staringinto the fire. But with that note in her pocket, Alice felt herself atonce in a new and detached position towards her family.
"It's money, of course," she said at last, her white brow puckering."It's not only bills--they're dreadfully worrying!--we seem never to getfree from them, but it's something else--something quite new--which hasonly happened, lately. There is an old loan from the bank that has beengoing on for years. Father had almost forgotten it, and now they'repressing him. It's dreadful. They know we're so hard up."
Connie in her turn looked perplexed. It was always difficult for her torealise financial trouble on a small scale. Ruin on the Falloden scalewas intelligible to one who had heard much talk of the bankruptcies ofsome of the great Roman families. But the carking care that may comefrom lack of a few hundred pounds, this the Risboroughs' daughter had tolearn; and she put her mind to it eagerly.
She propped her small chin on her hands, while Alice told her tale.Apparently the improvement in the family finance, caused by Connie'sthree hundred, had been the merest temporary thing. The Reader'screditors had been held off for a few months; but the rain oftradesmen's letters had been lately incessant. And the situation hadbeen greatly worsened by a blow which had fallen just before theopening of term.
In a former crisis, five years before this date, a compassionate cousin,one of the few well-to-do relations that Mrs. Hooper possessed, had cometo the rescue, and had given his name to the Hoopers' bankers asguarantee for a loan of L500. The loan was to have been repaid by yearlyinstalments. But the instalments had not been paid, and the cousin hadmost unexpectedly died of apoplexy during September, after three days'illness. His heir would have nothing to say to the guarantee, and thebank was pressing for repayment, in terms made all the harsher by theexistence of an overdraft, which the local manager knew in his fin
ancialconscience ought not to have been allowed. His letters were now so manysword-thrusts; and post-time was a time of terror.
"Father doesn't know what to do," said Alice despondently. "He and Noraspend all their time trying to think of some way out. Father got hissalary the other day, and never put it into the bank at all. We musthave something to live on. None"--she hesitated--"none of the tradesmenwill give us any credit." She flushed deeply over the confession.
"Goodness!" said Connie, opening her eyes still wider.
"But if Nora knows that I've been telling you"--cried Alice--"she'llnever forgive me. She made me promise I wouldn't tell you. But how canyou help knowing? If father's made a bankrupt, it wouldn't be very nicefor you! How could you go on living with us? Nora thinks she's going toearn money--that father can sell two wretched little books--and we cango and live in a tiny house on the Cowley Road--and--and--all sorts ofabsurd things!"
"But Why is it Nora that has to settle all these things?" asked Conniein bewilderment. "Why doesn't your mother--"
"Oh, because mother doesn't know anything about the bills," interruptedAlice. "She never can do a sum--or add up anything--and I'm no use at iteither. Nora took it all over last year, and she won't let even me helpher. She makes out the most wonderful statements--she made out a freshone to-day--that's why she had a headache when she came to meet you.But what's the good of statements? They won't pay the bank."
"But why--why--" repeated Connie, and then stopped, lest she should hurtAlice's feelings.
"Why did we get into debt? I'm sure I don't know!" Alice shook her headhelplessly. "We never seemed to have anything extravagant."
These things were beyond Connie's understanding. She gave it up. But hermind impetuously ran forward.
"How much is wanted altogether?"
Alice, reluctantly, named a sum not much short of a thousand pounds.
"Isn't it awful?"
She sighed deeply. Yet already she seemed to be talking of otherpeople's affairs!
"We can't ever do it. It's hopeless. Papa's taken two littleschool-books to do. They'll kill him with work, and will hardly bring inanything. And he's full up with horrid exams and lectures. He'll breakdown, and it all makes him so miserable, because he can't really do thework the University pays him to do. And he's never been abroad--even toRome. And as to Greece! It's dreadful!" she repeated mechanically.
Connie sprang up and began to pace the little room. The firelight playedon her mop of brown hair, bringing out its golden shades, and on thecharming pensiveness of her face. Alice watched her, thinking "She coulddo it all, if she chose!" But she didn't dare to say anything, forfear of Nora.
Presently Connie gave a great stretch.
"It's damnable!" she said, with energy.
Alice's instinct recoiled from the strong word. It wasn't the leastnecessary, she thought, to talk in that way.
Connie made a good many more enquiries--elicited a good many more facts.Then suddenly she brought her pacing to a stop.
"Look here--we must go to bed!--or Nora will be after us."
Alice went obediently. As soon as the door had shut upon her, Conniewent to a drawer in her writing table, and took out her bank-book. Ithad returned that morning and she had not troubled to look at it. Therewas always enough for what she wanted.
Heavens!--what a balance. She had quite forgotten a wind-fall which hadcome lately--some complicated transaction relating to a great industrialcompany in which she had shares and which had lately been giving birthto other subsidiary companies, and somehow the original shareholders, ofwhom Lord Risborough had been one, or their heirs and representatives,had profited greatly by the business. It had all been managed for her byher father's lawyer, and of course by Uncle Ewen. The money had beenpaid temporarily in to her own account, till the lawyer could make someenquiries about a fresh investment.
But it was her own money. She was entitled to--under the terms of herfather's letter to Uncle Ewen--to do what she liked with it. And evenwithout it, there was enough in the bank. Enough for this--and foranother purpose also, which lay even closer to her heart.
"I don't want any more new gowns for six months," she decidedperemptorily. "It's disgusting to be so well off. Well, now,--Iwonder--I wonder where Nora keeps those statements that Alicetalks about?"
In the schoolroom of course. But not under lock and key. Nobody everlocked drawers in that house. It was part of the generalhappy-go-luckishness of the family.
Connie made up the fire, and sat over it, thinking hard. A newcheque-book, too, had arrived with the bank-book. That was useful.
She waited till she heard the schoolroom door open, and Nora comeupstairs, followed soon by the slow and weary step of Uncle Ewen. Conniehad already lowered her gas before Nora reached the top landing.
The house was very soon silent. Connie turned her light on again, andwaited. By the time Big Ben had struck one o'clock, she thought it wouldbe safe to venture.
She opened her door with trembling, careful fingers, slipped off hershoes, took a candle and stole downstairs. The schoolroom door creakedodiously. But soon she was inside and looking about her.
There was Nora's table, piled high with the books and note-books of herEnglish literature work. Everything else had been put away. But the topdrawer of the table was unlocked. There was a key in it, but it wouldnot turn, being out of repair, like so much else in the house.
Connie, full of qualms, slowly opened the drawer. It washorrid--horrid--to do such things!--but what other way was there? Noramust be presented with the _fait accompli_, otherwise she would upseteverything--poor old darling!
Some loose sheets lay on the top of the papers in the drawer. The firstwas covered with figures and calculations that told nothing. Connielifted it, and there, beneath, lay Nora's latest "statement," at whichshe and her father had no doubt been working that very night. It washeaded "List of Liabilities," and in it every debt, headed by the bankclaim which had broken the family back, was accurately and clearlystated in Nora's best hand. The total at the foot evoked a low whistlefrom Connie. How had it come about? In spite of her luxurious bringingup, there was a shrewd element--an element of competence--in the girl'sdeveloping character, which was inclined to suggest that there need beno more difficulty in living on seven hundred a year than seventhousand, if you knew you had to do it. Then she rebuked herselffiercely for a prig--"You just try it!--you Pharisee, you!" And shethought of her own dressmakers' and milliners' bills, and became in theend quite pitiful over Aunt Ellen's moderation. After all it might havebeen two thousand instead of one! Of course it was all Aunt Ellen'smuddling, and Uncle Ewen's absent-mindedness.
She shaded her candle, and in a guilty hurry copied down the total on aslip of paper lying on the table, and took the address of Uncle Ewen'sbank from the outside of the pass-book lying beside the bills. Havingdone that, she Closed the drawer again, and crept upstairs like thecriminal she felt herself. Her small feet in their thin stockings seemedto her excited ears to be making the most hideous and unnatural noise onevery step. If Nora heard!
At last she was safe in her own room again. The door was locked, and themore agreeable part of the crime began. She drew out the newcheque-book lying in her own drawer, and very slowly and deliberatelywrote a cheque. Then she put it up, with a few covering words--anxiouslyconsidered--and addressed the envelope to the Oxford branch of awell-known banking firm, her father's bankers, to which her own accounthad been transferred on her arrival at Oxford. Ewen Hooper hadscrupulously refrained from recommending his own bank, lest he shouldprofit indirectly by his niece's wealth.
"Annette shall take it," she thought, "first thing. Oh, what a rowthere'll be!"
And then, uneasily pleased with her performance, she went to bed.
And she had soon forgotten all about her raid upon Uncle Ewen's affairs.Her thoughts floated to a little cottage on the hills, and its twocoming inhabitants. And in her dream she seemed to hear herself say--"Ioughtn't to be meddling with other people's li
ves like this. I don'tknow enough. I'm too young! I want somebody to show me--I do!"
* * * * *
The following day passed heavily in the Hooper household. Nora and herfather were closeted together all the morning; and there was a sense ofbrooding calamity in the air. Alice and Connie avoided each other, andConnie asked no questions. After luncheon Sorell called. He found Conniein the drawing-room alone, and gave her the news she was pining for. AsNora had reported, a cottage on Boar's Hill had been taken. It belongedto the head of an Oxford college, who had spent the preceding winterthere for his health, but had now been ordered abroad. It was verysmall, pleasantly furnished, and had a glorious view over Oxford in thehollow, the wooded lines of Garsington and Nuneham, and the distantridges of the Chilterns. Radowitz was expected the following day, andhis old college servant, with a woman to cook and do housework, had beenfound to look after him. He was working hard, at his symphony, and wason the whole much the same in health--very frail and often extremelyirritable; with alternations of cheerfulness and depression.
"And Mr. Falloden?" Connie ventured.
"He's coming soon--I didn't ask," said Sorell shortly. "That arrangementwon't last long."
Connie hesitated.
"But don't wish it to fail!" she said piteously.
"I think the sooner it is over the better," said Sorell, with ratherstern decision. "Falloden ought never to have made the proposal, and itwas mere caprice in Otto to accept it. But you know what I think. Ishall watch the whole thing very anxiously; and try to have some oneready to put into Falloden's place--when it breaks down. Mrs. Mulhollandand I have it in hand. She'll take Otto up to the cottage to-morrow, andmeans to mother Radowitz as much as he'll let her. Now then"--he changedthe subject with a smile--"are you going to enjoy your winter term?"
His dark eyes, as she met them, were full of an anxious affection.
"I have forgotten all my Greek!"
"Oh no--not in a month. Prepare me a hundred lines of the 'Odyssey,'Book VI.! Next week I shall have some time. This first week is always adrive. Miss Nora says she'll go on again."
"Does she? She seems so--so busy."
"Ah, yes--she's got some work for the University Press. Plucky littlething! But she mustn't overdo it."
Connie dropped the subject. These conferences in the study, which hadgone on all day, had nothing to do with Nora's work for the Press--thatshe was certain of. But she only said--holding out her hands, with thefree gesture that was natural to her--
"I wish some one would give me the chance of 'overdoing it'! Do set meto work--hard work! The sun never shines here."
Her eyes wandered petulantly to the rainy sky outside, and thehigh-walled college opposite.
"Southerner! Wait till you see it shining on the Virginia creeper in ourgarden quad. Oxford is a dream in October!--just for a week or two, tillthe leaves fall. November is dreary, I admit. All the same--try andbe happy!"
He looked at her gravely and tenderly. She coloured a little as shewithdrew her hands.
"Happy? That doesn't matter--does it? But perhaps for a change--onemight try--"
"Try what?"
"Well!"--she laughed, but he thought there were tears in her eyes--"todo something--for somebody--occasionally."
"Ask Mrs. Mulholland! She has a genius for that kind of thing. Teachsome of her orphans!"
"I couldn't! They'd find me out."
Sorell, rather puzzled, suggested that she might become a Home Studentlike Nora, and go in for a Literature or Modern History Certificate.Connie, who was now sitting moodily over a grate with no fire in it,with her chin in her hands, only shook her head.
"I don't know anything--I never learnt anything. And everybody here's soappallingly clever!"
Then she declared that she would go and have tea with the Master ofBeaumont, and ask his advice. "He told me to learn something"--the tonewas one of depression, passing into rebellion--"but I don't want tolearn anything!--I want to do something!"
Sorell laughed at her.
"Learning is doing!"
"That's what Oxford people think," she said defiantly. "I don't agreewith them."
"What do you mean by 'doing'?"
Connie poked an imaginary fire.
"Making myself happy"--she said slowly, "and--and a few other people!"
Sorell laughed again. Then rising to take his leave, he stooped overher.
"Make me happy by undoing that stroke of yours at Boar's Hill!"
Connie raised herself, and looked at him steadily.
Then gravely and decisively she shook her head.
"Not at all! I shall keep an eye on it!--so must you!"
Then, suddenly, she smiled--the softest, most radiant smile, as thoughsome hope within, far within, looked out. It was gone in a moment, andSorell went his way; but as one who had been the spectator of an event.
* * * * *
After his departure Connie sat on in the cold room, thinking aboutSorell. She was devoted to him--he was the noblest, dearest person. Shewished dreadfully to please him. But she wasn't going to let him--well,what?--to let him interfere with that passionate purpose which seemed tobe beating in her, and through her, like a living thing, though as yetshe had but vaguely defined it even to herself.
* * * * *
After tea, which Mrs. Hooper dispensed with red eyes, and at whichneither Nora nor Dr. Hooper appeared, Constance found a novel, andestablished herself in the deserted schoolroom. She couldn't go out. Shewas on the watch for a letter that might arrive. The two banks were onlya stone's throw apart. The local post should deliver that letterabout six.
Once Nora looked in to find a document, and was astonished to see Conniethere. But she was evidently too harassed and miserable to talk. Connielistened uneasily to the opening and shutting of a drawer, with whichshe was already acquainted. Then Nora disappeared again. What were theytrying to do, poor dears!--Nora, and Uncle Ewen? What could they do?
The autumn evening darkened slowly. At last!--a ring and a double knock.The study door opened, and Connie heard Nora's step, and the click ofthe letter-box. The study door closed again.
Connie put down her novel and listened. Her hands trembled. She was fullindeed of qualms and compunctions. Would they be angry with her? She hadmeant it well.
Footsteps approaching--not Nora's.
Uncle Ewen stood in the doorway--looking very pale and strained.
"Connie, would you mind coming into my study? Something rather strangehas happened."
Connie got up and slowly followed him across the hall. As she enteredthe study, she saw Nora, with blazing eyes and cheeks, standing by herfather's writing-table, aglow with anger or excitement--or both. Shelooked at Connie as at an enemy, and Connie flushed a bright pink.
Uncle Ewen shut the door, and addressed his niece. "My dear Connie, Iwant you, if you can--to throw some light on a letter I have justreceived. Both Nora and I suspect your hand in it. If so, you have donesomething I--I can't permit."
He held out a letter, which Connie took like a culprit. It was acommunication from his Oxford bankers to Professor Hooper, to the effectthat, a sum of L1100 having been paid in to his credit by a person whodesired to remain unknown, his debt to them was covered, and his accountshowed a balance of about six hundred pounds.
"My dear!"--his voice and hand shook--"is that your doing?"
"Of course it is!" interrupted Nora passionately. "Look at her, father!How dared you, Connie, do such a thing without a word to father! It's ashame--a disgrace! We could have found a way out--we could!"
And the poor child, worn out with anxiety and lack of sleep, and in hersensitive pride and misery ready to turn on Connie and rend her forhaving dared thus to play Lady Bountiful without warning or permission,sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and burstout sobbing.
Connie handed back the letter, and hung her head. "Won't you--won't youlet the person--who-
-sent the money remain unknown, Uncle Ewen?--as theywished to be?"
Uncle Ewen sat down before his writing-table, and he also buried hisface in his hands. Connie stood between them--as it were a prisoner atthe bar--looking now very white and childish.
"Dear Uncle Ewen--"
"How did you guess?" said Nora vehemently, uncovering her face--"I neversaid a word to you!"
Connie gave a tremulous laugh.
"Do you think I couldn't see that you were all dreadfully unhappy aboutsomething? I--I made Alice tell me--"
"Alice is a sieve!" cried Nora. "I knew, father, we could never trusther."
"And then"--Connie went on--"I--I did an awful thing. I'd better tellyou. I came and looked at Nora's papers--in the schoolroom drawer. I sawthat." She pointed penitentially to a sheet of figures lying on thestudy table.
Both Nora and her uncle looked up in amazement, staring at her.
"It was at night," she said hurriedly--"last night. Oh, I put it allback!"--she turned, pleading, to Nora--"just as I found it. Youshouldn't be angry with me--you shouldn't indeed!"
Then her own voice began to shake. She came and laid her hand on heruncle's shoulder.
"Dear Uncle Ewen--you know, I had that extra money! What did I want withit? Just think--if it had been mamma! Wouldn't you have let her help?You know you would! You couldn't have been so unkind. Well then, I knewit would be no good, if I came and asked you--you wouldn't have let me.So I--well, I just did it!"
Ewen Hooper rose from his table in great distress of mind.
"But, my dear Connie--you are my ward--and I am your guardian! How can Ilet you give me money?"
"It's my own money," said Connie firmly. "You know it is. Father wroteto you to say I might spend it now, as I liked--all there was, exceptthe capital of my two thousand a year, which I mayn't spend--till I amtwenty-five. This has nothing to do with that. I'm quite free--and soare you. Do you think"--she drew herself up indignantly--"that you'regoing to make me happy--by turning me out, and all--all of you going torack and ruin--when I've got that silly money lying in the bank? I won'thave it! I don't want to go and live in the Cowley Road! I won't go andlive in the Cowley Road! You promised father and mother to look afterme, Uncle Ewen, and it isn't looking after me--"
"You can't reproach me on that score as much as I do myself!" said EwenHooper, with emotion. "There's something in that I admit--there'ssomething in that."
He began to pace the room. Presently, pausing beside Connie, he plungedinto an agitated and incoherent account of the situation--of the effortshe had made to get even some temporary help--and of the failure of allof them. It was the confession of a weak and defeated man; and as madeby a man of his age to a girl of Connie's, it was extremely painful.Nora hid her eyes again, and Connie got paler and paler.
At last she went up to him, holding out again appealing hands.
"Please don't tell me any more! It's all right. I just love you, UncleEwen--and--and Nora! I want to help! It makes me happy. Oh, why won'tyou let me!"
He wavered.
"You dear child!" There was a silence. Then he resumed--as thoughfeeling his way--
"It occurs to me that I might consult Sorell. If he thought it right--ifwe could protect you from loss--!"
Connie sprang at him and kissed him in delight.
"Of course!--that'll do splendidly! Mr. Sorell will see, at once, it'sthe right thing for me, and my happiness. I can't be turned out--Ireally can't! So it's settled. Yes--it's settled!--or it will bedirectly--and nobody need bother any more--need they? But--there's onecondition."
Ewen Hooper looked at her in silence.
"That you--you and Nora--go to Borne this Christmas time, this veryChristmas, Uncle Ewen! I think I put in enough--and I can give you sucha lot of letters!"
She laughed joyously, though she was very near crying.
"I have never been able to go to Home--Or Athens--never!" he said, in alow voice, as he sat down again at his table. All the thwarted hopes,all the sordid cares of years were in the quiet words.
"Well, now you're going!" said Connie shyly. "Oh, that would be ripping!You'll promise me that--you must, please!"
Silence again. She approached Nora, timidly.
"Nora!"
Nora rose. Her face was stained with tears.
"It's all wrong," she said heavily--"it's all wrong. But--I give in.What I said was a lie. There is nothing else in the world that we couldpossibly do."
And she rushed out of the room without another word. Connie lookedwistfully after her. Nora's pain in receiving had stirred in her theshame-faced distress in giving that lives in generous souls. "Why shouldI have more than they?"
She stole out after Nora. Ewen Hooper was left staring at the letterfrom his bankers, and trying to collect his thoughts. Connie's voice wasstill in his ears. It had all the sweetness of his dead sister's.
* * * * *
Connie was reading in her room before dinner. She had shut herself upthere, feeling rather battered by the emotions of the afternoon, whenshe heard a knock that she knew was Nora's.
"Come in!"
Nora appeared. She had had her storm of weeping in private and got overit. She was now quite composed, but the depression, the humiliationeven, expressed in her whole bearing dismayed Connie afresh.
Nora took a seat on the other side of the fire. Connie eyed heruneasily.
"Are you ever going to forgive me, Nora?" she said, at last.
Nora shrugged her shoulders.
"You couldn't help it. I see that."
"Thank you," said Connie meekly.
"But what I can't forgive is that you never said a word--"
"To you? That you might undo it all? Nora, you really are an absurdperson!" Connie sprang up, and came to kneel by the fire, so that shemight attack her cousin at close quarters. "We're told it's 'moreblessed to give than to receive.' Not when you're on the premises, Nora!I really don't think you need make me feel such an outcast! I say--howmany nights have you been awake lately?"
Nora's lip quivered a little.
"That doesn't matter," she said shortly.
"Yes, but it does matter! You promised to be my friend--and--you havebeen treating me abominably!" said Connie, with flashing eyes.
Nora feebly defended herself, but was soon reduced to accept a pair ofarms thrown round her, and a soft shoulder on which to rest anaching head.
"I'm no good," she said desparingly. "I give up--everything."
"That's all right!" Connie's tone was extremely cheerful. "Which means,I hope, that you'll give up that absurd copying in the Bodleian. You getabout twopence halfpenny for it, and it'll cost you your first-class.How are you going to get a First I should like to know, with your headfull of bills, and no sleep at nights?"
Nora flushed fiercely.
"I want to earn my living--I mean to earn my living! And how do youknow--after all"--she held Connie at arm's length--"that Mr. Scroll'sgoing to approve of what you've done? And father won't accept, unlesshe does."
Connie laughed.
"Mr. Sorell will do--exactly what pleases me. Mr. Sorell"--she began tosearch for a cigarette--"Mr. Sorell is an angel."
A silence. Connie looked up, rather surprised.
"Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Nora in an odd voice.
Connie observed her. A flickering light began to play in the brown eyes.
"H'm. Have you been doing some Greek already?--stealing a march on me?"
"I had a lesson last week."
"Had you? The first I've heard of it!" Connie fluttered up and down theroom in her white dressing-gown, occasionally breaking into adance-step, as though to work off a superfluity of spirits.
Finally she stopped in front of Nora, looking her up and down.
"I dare you to hide anything again from me, Nora!"
Nora sat up.
"There is nothing to hide," she said stiffly.
Connie laughed aloud; and Nora suddenly
sprang from her chair, and ranout of the room.
Connie was left panting a little. Life in Medburn House seemed certainlyto be running faster than of old!
"I never gave him leave to fall in love with Nora!" she thought, with anunmistakable pang of common, ordinary jealousy. She had been so longaccustomed to take her property in Sorell for granted!--and the summermonths had brought her into such intimate contact with him. "And henever made love to me for one moment!--nor I to him. I don't believehe's made love to Nora--I'm sure he hasn't--yet. But why didn't he tellme of that Greek lesson?"
She stood before the glass, pulling down her hair, so that it fell allabout her.
"I seem to be rather cut out for fairy-godmothering!" she said pensivelyto the image in the glass. "But there's a good deal to do for thepost!--one must admit there's a good deal to do--Nora's got to be fixedup--and all the money business. And then--then!"
She clasped her hands behind her head. Her eyelids fell, and through herslight figure there ran a throb of yearning--of tender yetdespairing passion.
"If I could only mend things there, I might be some use. I don't wanthim to marry me--but just--just--"
Then her hands fell. She shook her head angrily. "You humbug!--youhumbug! For whom are you posing now?"