"Why Ella--Ella after all this time! Minton told me that you had called
and had gone in search of Lucie. And how is your father?"
"He's very well, thanks," was my love's reply. "I left him at Swanage,
and drove out to see if Lucie was at home."
"And Mr Leaf," exclaimed Lucie. "I think you have met him before,
father?"
"Certainly," Miller said pleasantly, extending his hand to me. "You are
staying here, in Studland?"
"For a couple of days or so," I answered.
"You mentioned that you had met my daughter," he remarked, and then
after welcoming Ella and pressing her to remain there the night, he
ordered Minton to bring us chairs, and pushed the cigars across to me.
To Miller, Ella gave the same account of herself as she had given to us.
The identity of the person who had spread the false report concerning
her death--a report which had passed from mouth to mouth among all her
friends--was a mystery, and Miller was just as surprised and just as
pleased as ourselves at her reappearance.
As we sat there in the starlight I listened to Ella's account of her
free, open-air life in County Galway, for Wichenford was still let to
the wealthy American; and her father, she said, preferred Ireland as a
place of residence when he could not live on his own estate.
"But you never wrote to us," Miller remarked. "Often we have spoken of
you, and regretted that you were no longer with us. Indeed, your
portrait is still yonder in the drawing-room. Only the day before
yesterday Mr Leaf noticed it, and inquired whether I knew you."
My love's eyes met mine in a long wistful look.
"I believed that you were always abroad," she answered him. "And--well,
to tell the truth, I had an idea that you had altogether forgotten me."
"Forgotten you, dear?" cried Lucie. "We have never forgotten you. How
could I ever forget my dearest friend--and more especially when I knew
what a terrible self-sacrifice you had made?"
"What's that?" inquired Miller, quickly interested.
"Shall I tell him?" asked Lucie, turning to me.
"If you wish. It is only right, I think, that Mr Miller should know
the truth."
Therefore, receiving Ella's consent as well, Lucie explained to her
father how I had been her friend's secret lover, and how she had broken
off our affection by force of circumstance, sacrificing herself in order
to save her father from ruin.
He listened to his daughter in surprise, then sighing heavily, turned to
Ella, saying sympathetically:--
"How noble of you! Ah! what you both must have suffered! You need not
tell me, either of you, for I know myself what it is to lose the woman
one loves. I recollect my poor dear wife and still adore her memory."
And this from a man who was suspected of being leader of a gang of
international criminals!
"The bitterness of the past," I said, "will perhaps render the joy of
the present all the sweeter."
"It certainly ought to. Surely your delight at finding Ella alive and
well when you, like all of us, believed her dead, must be beyond
bounds?"
"It is! It is!" I cried. "I, who believed that she preferred wealth
to my honest love; I, who have these long years been filled with a
thousand regrets and reproaches, now know the truth. I have misjudged
her!"
The soft hand of my well-beloved sought my wrist and gripped it. That
action conveyed more to me than any words of hers could have done.
Presently it grew chilly, and we went into the long old-fashioned
drawing-room, where we found Miss Miller, a pleasant grey-faced old
lady, in a cap with cherry-coloured ribbons, idling over a book.
Upon the table still stood the portrait of my dear heart, the picture
which only two days before had awakened within me such bitter
remembrances. The silk-shaded lamps shed a soft light over everything,
illuminating for the first time my Ella's beautiful face. In the
twilight by the river I had seen that she had become even more
beautiful, yet the light that now fell upon her revealed a calmness and
sweetness of expression that I had not hitherto been able to
distinguish. She was far more lovely than I had believed--more
beautiful even than in those days of our secret love.
Those great blue eyes looked out upon me with that same love-flame as of
old--eyes that were clear and bright as a child's, the glance of which
would have made any man's head reel--cheeks that were more delicately
moulded than the marbles of Michael Angelo, and a grace that was
perfect, complete, adorable.
And she was mine--still my own!
Strange that this sudden happiness was actually the sequel of a tragedy!
"It is really delightful to be back here again," she remarked to Lucie,
glancing round the room. "How well I remember the old days when, in the
holidays, I came and stayed with you. Nothing has changed. The dear
old place is just the same."
"Yes," replied Lucie. "I only wish we lived here more. But father and
I are always abroad--always moving from place to place through France,
Germany, Spain, Italy, just as the fit takes us. Nowadays, dear old dad
is really like the Jew-errant. He can't remain more than a few days in
one place--can you, dad?" she asked, laughing across at him.
"No, my dear," was his response in a strange voice. "I must travel--
travel--always travel. To keep moving is part of my nature, I believe."
"Only fancy! he's here in England!" she remarked to Ella. "It's really
wonderful!"
While this conversation was in progress I was afraid that old Miss
Miller might refer to my call upon her; but fortunately she either did
not catch my name when introduced, or did not connect me with her
mysterious visitor.
The owner of Studland Manor was, I saw, somewhat uneasy when his
daughter began to explain how constantly they travelled. He seemed a
little annoyed that Lucie should tell us that they were constantly
moving, instead of living quietly by the Mediterranean outside Leghorn,
as he would have me believe.
The old-fashioned Empire clock beneath its glass shade, standing on the
chimney-piece, struck eleven, and I rose resolutely to take my leave. I
had expressed pleasure at my new-found happiness, shook hands all round,
and asked leave to call on the morrow.
"Certainly--most certainly," answered Miller, in that breezy manner that
he had sometimes assumed towards me on our last meeting. He was
essentially a man of moods, sometimes brooding and strange, at others
full of buoyant good-humour, "You are always welcome here, remember.
Perhaps you'll dine with us--just pot-luck--at seven to-morrow night? I
don't expect you get much that's worth eating down at the `Lion'. We'll
induce Ella to stay over to-morrow, eh?"
My love protested that she would be compelled to return to Swanage in
the morning, but we would not hear of it.
Then Miller, with a delicacy which further showed that he had taken a
fancy to me, suggested that Ella might, perhaps, like to accompany me as
far as the lodge-gates, and a few moments later I went forth with my
love into the darkness.
For the first hundred paces, until we entered the black shadows of the
old beech hedge, we walked hand-in-hand, uttering no single word.
After that long interval of mourning and black despair, I was again at
her side--alone. I was beside myself for very joy.
We halted. It seemed an almost involuntary action. Then taking her
tenderly in my arms I pressed my lips to hers in a first long passionate
caress.
"My love!" I murmured, with heart overflowing, "my dearest love--you
for whom I have mourned, and whose dear memory I have ever revered--God
has given you back to me. We have met again--you have been given to me
from the grave, never to part--never--_never_!"
To my blank amazement she turned her pale white face from mine, without
reciprocating my passionate kisses. She sighed, and a shiver ran
through her slight frame. Her lips were cold, and with her hands she
pushed me from her with averted face.
"Ella!" I gasped, holding her, and looking into her fine eyes, though I
could see no expression there, so dark was it. "Ella! Darling, may I
not at least kiss you welcome on your return to me? Are you not mine--
my own?"
She made no response, only pushing me farther from her very firmly,
although I felt that her tiny hands trembled. She was overcome with
emotion, which she was in vain striving to suppress.
I held my breath--startled at her sudden and unaccountable change of
manner. My heart was bursting. What did it mean?
"Speak, dearest!" I implored. "Tell me the reason of this? Are you
not still my love? Are you not mine--as you were in the old days?"
Slowly she shook her head, and in a faltering voice, hoarse and low,
responded:--
"No, Godfrey! After to-night we must never again meet. Forgive me, but
I thought you had long ago forgotten me as utterly worthless."
"I have never forgotten, darling. You are my own dear Ella, as always.
Therefore we are now inseparable--we _shall_ meet again."
"Impossible!" she declared decisively in that same hard tone, her voice
so entirely changed. "I am no longer your love, Godfrey. I may as well
confess to you the bitter truth at once--_I am another's_!"