My Lady's Money

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER XV.

  ISABEL looked down at the letter in her hand--considered it insilence--and turned to Moody. "I feel tempted to open it already," shesaid.

  "After giving your promise?" Moody gently remonstrated.

  Isabel met that objection with a woman's logic.

  "Does a promise matter?" she asked, "when one gives it to a dirty,disreputable, presuming old wretch like Mr. Sharon? It's a wonder to methat you trust such a creature. _I_ wouldn't!"

  "I doubted him just as you do," Moody answered, "when I first saw him incompany with Mr. Troy. But there was something in the advice he gaveus at that first consultation which altered my opinion of him for thebetter. I dislike his appearance and his manners as much as you do--Imay even say I felt ashamed of bringing such a person to see you. Andyet I can't think that I have acted unwisely in employing Mr. Sharon."

  Isabel listened absently. She had something more to say, and she wasconsidering how she should say it. "May I ask you a bold question?" shebegan.

  "Any question you like."

  "Have you--" she hesitated and looked embarrassed. "Have you paid Mr.Sharon much money?" she resumed, suddenly rallying her courage. Insteadof answering, Moody suggested that it was time to think of returningto Miss Pink's villa. "Your aunt may be getting anxious about you." hesaid.

  Isabel led the way out of the farmhouse in silence. She reverted to Mr.Sharon and the money, however, as they returned by the path across thefields.

  "I am sure you will not be offended with me," she said gently, "if I ownthat I am uneasy about the expense. I am allowing you to use your purseas if it was mine--and I have hardly any savings of my own."

  Moody entreated her not to speak of it. "How can I put my money to abetter use than in serving your interests?" he asked. "My one objectin life is to relieve you of your present anxieties. I shall bethe happiest man living if you only owe a moment's happiness to myexertions!"

  Isabel took his hand, and looked at him with grateful tears in her eyes.

  "How good you are to me, Mr. Moody!" she said. "I wish I could tell youhow deeply I feel your kindness."

  "You can do it easily," he answered, with a smile. "Call me'Robert'--don't call me 'Mr. Moody.'"

  She took his arm with a sudden familiarity that charmed him. "If you hadbeen my brother I should have called you 'Robert,'" she said; "and nobrother could have been more devoted to me than you are."

  He looked eagerly at her bright face turned up to his. "May I neverhope to be something nearer and dearer to you than a brother?" he askedtimidly.

  She hung her head and said nothing. Moody's memory recalled Sharon'scoarse reference to her "sweetheart." She had blushed when he put thequestion? What had she done when Moody put _his_ question? Her faceanswered for her--she had turned pale; she was looking more serious thanusual. Ignorant as he was of the ways of women, his instinct told himthat this was a bad sign. Surely her rising color would have confessedit, if time and gratitude together were teaching her to love him? Hesighed as the inevitable conclusion forced itself on his mind.

  "I hope I have not offended you?" he said sadly.

  "Oh, no."

  "I wish I had not spoken. Pray don't think that I am serving you withany selfish motive."

  "I don't think that, Robert. I never could think it of _you_."

  He was not quite satisfied yet. "Even if you were to marry some otherman," he went on earnestly, "it would make no difference in what I amtrying to do for you. No matter what I might suffer, I should still goon--for your sake."

  "Why do you talk so?" she burst out passionately. "No other man has sucha claim as you to my gratitude and regard. How can you let such thoughtscome to you? I have done nothing in secret. I have no friends who arenot known to you. Be satisfied with that, Robert--and let us drop thesubject."

  "Never to take it up again?" he asked, with the infatuated pertinacityof a man clinging to his last hope.

  At other times and under other circumstances, Isabel might have answeredhim sharply. She spoke with perfect gentleness now.

  "Not for the present," she said. "I don't know my own heart. Give metime."

  His gratitude caught at those words, as the drowning man is said tocatch at the proverbial straw. He lifted her hand, and suddenly andfondly pressed his lips on it. She showed no confusion. Was she sorryfor him, poor wretch!--and was that all?

  They walked on, arm-in-arm, in silence.

  Crossing the last field, they entered again on the high road leadingto the row of villas in which Miss Pink lived. The minds of bothwere preoccupied. Neither of them noticed a gentleman approaching onhorseback, followed by a mounted groom. He was advancing slowly, at thewalking-pace of his horse, and he only observed the two foot-passengerswhen he was close to them.

  "Miss Isabel!"

  She started, looked up, and discovered--Alfred Hardyman.

  He was dressed in a perfectly-made travelling suit of light brown,with a peaked felt hat of a darker shade of the same color, which, ina picturesque sense, greatly improved his personal appearance. Hispleasure at discovering Isabel gave the animation to his features whichthey wanted on ordinary occasions. He sat his horse, a superb hunter,easily and gracefully. His light amber-colored gloves fitted himperfectly. His obedient servant, on another magnificent horse, waitedbehind him. He looked the impersonation of rank and breeding--of wealthand prosperity. What a contrast, in a woman's eyes, to the shy, pale,melancholy man, in the ill-fitting black clothes, with the wandering,uneasy glances, who stood beneath him, and felt, and showed that hefelt, his inferior position keenly! In spite of herself, the treacherousblush flew over Isabel's face, in Moody's presence, and with Moody'seyes distrustfully watching her.

  "This is a piece of good fortune that I hardly hoped for," saidHardyman, his cool, quiet, dreary way of speaking quickened as usual,in Isabel's presence. "I only got back from France this morning, andI called on Lady Lydiard in the hope of seeing you. She was not athome--and you were in the country--and the servants didn't know theaddress. I could get nothing out of them, except that you were on avisit to a relation." He looked at Moody while he was speaking. "Haven'tI seen you before?" he said, carelessly. "Yes; at Lady Lydiard's. You'reher steward, are you not? How d'ye do?" Moody, with his eyes on theground, answered silently by a bow. Hardyman, perfectly indifferentwhether Lady Lydiard's steward spoke or not, turned on his saddle andlooked admiringly at Isabel. "I begin to think I am a lucky man atlast," he went on with a smile. "I was jogging along to my farm, anddespairing of ever seeing Miss Isabel again--and Miss Isabel herselfmeets me at the roadside! I wonder whether you are as glad to see me asI am to see you? You won't tell me--eh? May I ask you something else?Are you staying in our neighborhood?"

  There was no alternative before Isabel but to answer this last question.Hardyman had met her out walking, and had no doubt drawn the inevitableinference--although he was too polite to say so in plain words.

  "Yes, sir," she answered, shyly, "I am staying in this neighborhood."

  "And who is your relation?" Hardyman proceeded, in his easy,matter-of-course way. "Lady Lydiard told me, when I had the pleasure ofmeeting you at her house, that you had an aunt living in the country.I have a good memory, Miss Isabel, for anything that I hear about You!It's your aunt, isn't it? Yes? I know everybody about hew. What is youraunt's name?"

  Isabel, still resting her hand on Robert's arm, felt it tremble a littleas Hardyman made this last inquiry. If she had been speaking to one ofher equals she would have known how to dispose of the question withoutdirectly answering it. But what could she say to the magnificentgentleman on the stately horse? He had only to send his servant into thevillage to ask who the young lady from London was staying with, and theanswer, in a dozen mouths at least, would direct him to her aunt. Shecast one appealing look at Moody and pronounced the distinguished nameof Miss Pink.

  "Miss Pink?" Hardyman repeated. "Surely I know Miss Pink?" (He had notthe faintest remembrances of her.) "Where did I meet her last?"
(He ranover in his memory the different local festivals at which strangershad been introduced to him.) "Was it at the archery meeting? or at thegrammar-school when the prizes were given? No? It must have been at theflower show, then, surely?"

  It _had_ been at the flower show. Isabel had heard it from Miss Pinkfifty times at least, and was obliged to admit it now.

  "I am quite ashamed of never having called," Hardyman proceeded. "Thefact is, I have so much to do. I am a bad one at paying visits. Are youon your way home? Let me follow you and make my apologies personally toMiss Pink."

  Moody looked at Isabel. It was only a momentary glance, but sheperfectly understood it.

  "I am afraid, sir, my aunt cannot have the honor of seeing you to-day,"she said.

  Hardyman was all compliance. He smiled and patted his horse's neck."To-morrow, then," he said. "My compliments, and I will call in theafternoon. Let me see: Miss Pink lives at--?" He waited, as if heexpected Isabel to assist his treacherous memory once more. Shehesitated again. Hardyman looked round at his groom. The groom couldfind out the address, even if he did not happen to know it already.Besides, there was the little row of houses visible at the further endof the road. Isabel pointed to the villas, as a necessary concessionto good manners, before the groom could anticipate her. "My aunt livesthere, sir; at the house called The Lawn."

  "Ah! to be sure!" said Hardyman. "I oughtn't to have wanted reminding;but I have so many things to think of at the farm. And I am afraid Imust be getting old--my memory isn't as good as it was. I am so glad tohave seen you, Miss Isabel. You and your aunt must come and look at myhorses. Do you like horses? Are you fond of riding? I have a quiet roanmare that is used to carrying ladies; she would be just the thing foryou. Did I beg you to give my best compliments to your aunt? Yes? Howwell you are looking! our air here agrees with you. I hope I haven'tkept you standing too long? I didn't think of it in the pleasure ofmeeting you. Good-by, Miss Isabel; good-by, till to-morrow!"

  He took off his hat to Isabel, nodded to Moody, and pursued his way tothe farm.

  Isabel looked at her companion. His eyes were still on the ground. Pale,silent, motionless, he waited by her like a dog, until she gave thesignal of walking on again towards the house.

  "You are not angry with me for speaking to Mr. Hardyman?" she asked,anxiously.

  He lifted his head it the sound of her voice. "Angry with you, my dear!why should I be angry?"

  "You seem so changed, Robert, since we met Mr. Hardyman. I couldn't helpspeaking to him--could I?"

  "Certainly not."

  They moved on towards the villa. Isabel was still uneasy. There wassomething in Moody's silent submission to all that she said and all thatshe did which pained and humiliated her. "You're not jealous?" she said,smiling timidly.

  He tried to speak lightly on his side. "I have no time to be jealouswhile I have your affairs to look after," he answered.

  She pressed his arm tenderly. "Never fear, Robert, that new friends willmake me forget the best and dearest friend who is now at my side." Shepaused, and looked up at him with a compassionate fondness that was verypretty to see. "I can keep out of the way to-morrow, when Mr. Hardymancalls," she said. "It is my aunt he is coming to see--not me."

  It was generously meant. But while her mind was only occupied with thepresent time, Moody's mind was looking into the future. He was learningthe hard lesson of self-sacrifice already. "Do what you think is right,"he said quietly; "don't think of me."

  They reached the gate of the villa. He held out his hand to say good-by.

  "Won't you come in?" she asked. "Do come in!"

  "Not now, my dear. I must get back to London as soon as I can. There issome more work to be done for you, and the sooner I do it the better."

  She heard his excuse without heeding it.

  "You are not like yourself, Robert," she said. "Why is it? What are youthinking of?"

  He was thinking of the bright blush that overspread her face whenHardyman first spoke to her; he was thinking of the invitation to herto see the stud-farm, and to ride the roan mare; he was thinking of theutterly powerless position in which he stood towards Isabel and towardsthe highly-born gentleman who admired her. But he kept his doubts andfears to himself. "The train won't wait for me," he said, and held outhis hand once more.

  She was not only perplexed; she was really distressed. "Don't take leaveof me in that cold way!" she pleaded. Her eyes dropped before his, andher lips trembled a little. "Give me a kiss, Robert, at parting." Shesaid those bold words softly and sadly, out of the depth of her pityfor him. He started; his face brightened suddenly; his sinking hoperose again. In another moment the change came; in another moment heunderstood her. As he touched her cheek with his lips, he turned paleagain. "Don't quite forget me," he said, in low, faltering tones--andleft her.

  Miss Pink met Isabel in the hall. Refreshed by unbroken repose, theex-schoolmistress was in the happiest frame of mind for the reception ofher niece's news.

  Informed that Moody had travelled to South Morden to personally reportthe progress of the inquiries, Miss Pink highly approved of him as asubstitute for Mr. Troy. "Mr. Moody, as a banker's son, is a gentlemanby birth," she remarked; "he has condescended, in becoming LadyLydiard's steward. What I saw of him, when he came here with you,prepossessed me in his favor. He has my confidence, Isabel, as well asyours--he is in every respect a superior person to Mr. Troy. Did youmeet any friends, my dear, when you were out walking?"

  The answer to this question produced a species of transformation in MissPink. The rapturous rank-worship of her nation feasted, so to speak, onHardyman's message. She looked taller and younger than usual--she wasall smiles and sweetness. "At last, Isabel, you have seen birth andbreeding under their right aspect," she said. "In the society of LadyLydiard, you cannot possibly have formed correct ideas of the Englisharistocracy. Observe Mr. Hardyman when he does me the honor to callto-morrow--and you will see the difference."

  "Mr. Hardyman is your visitor, aunt--not mine. I was going to ask you tolet me remain upstairs in my room."

  Miss Pink was unaffectedly shocked. "This is what you learn at LadyLydiard's!" she observed. "No, Isabel, your absence would be a breachof good manners--I cannot possibly permit it. You will be present toreceive our distinguished friend with me. And mind this!" added MissPink, in her most impressive manner, "If Mr. Hardyman should by anychance ask why you have left Lady Lydiard, not one word about thosedisgraceful circumstances which connect you with the loss of thebanknote! I should sink into the earth if the smallest hint of whathas really happened should reach Mr. Hardyman's ears. My child, I standtowards you in the place of your lamented mother; I have the right tocommand your silence on this horrible subject, and I do imperativelycommand it."

  In these words foolish Miss Pink sowed the seed for the harvest oftrouble that was soon to come.