A PROPOSAL AND A DIFFERENCE.
The morrow was a Sunday, when, according to immemorial custom, everybody
belonging to Rosham Hall was expected to go to church once in the day—a
rule, however, from which visitors were excused. Henry made up his mind that
Mr. Levinger and his daughter would avail themselves of this liberty of choice
and stay at home. There was something so uncommon about both of them that he
jumped to the conclusion that they were certainly agnostics, and in all
probability atheists. Therefore he was somewhat surprised when at breakfast he
heard Mr. Levinger making arrangements to be driven to the church—for,
short as was the distance, it was farther than he could walk—and Emma
announced her intention of accompanying him.
Henry walked down to church by himself, for Sir Reginald had driven with his
guests and his mother and sister were not going until the afternoon. Finding
the three seated in the front pew of the nave, he placed himself in that
immediately behind, where he thought that he would be more comfortable, and the
service began. It was an ordinary country service in an ordinary country church
celebrated by an ordinary rather long-winded parson: conditions that are apt to
cause the thoughts to wander, even in the best regulated mind. Although he did
his utmost to keep his attention fixed, for it was characteristic of him that
even in such a matter as the listening to ill-sung psalms his notions of duty
influenced him, Henry soon found himself lost in reflections. We need not
follow them all, since, wherever they began, they ended in the consideration of
the father and daughter before him, and of all the circumstances connected with
them. Even now, while the choir wheezed and the clergyman droned, the
respective attitudes of these two struck him as exceedingly interesting. The
father followed every verse and every prayer with an almost passionate
devotion, that afforded a strange insight into an unsuspected side of his
character. Clearly, whatever might have been the sins of his youth, he was now
a religious devotee, or something very like it, for Henry felt certain that his
manner was not assumed.
With Emma it was different. Her demeanour was one of earnest and respectful
piety—a piety which with her was obviously a daily habit, since he
noticed that she knew all the canticles and most of the psalms by heart. As it
chanced, the one redeeming point in the service was the reading of the lessons.
These were read by Sir Reginald Graves, whose fine voice and impressive manner
were in striking contrast to the halting utterance of the clergyman. The second
lesson was taken from perhaps the most beautiful of the passages in the Bible,
the fifteenth chapter of the first Epistle to the Corinthians, wherein the
Apostle sets out his inspired vision of the resurrection of the dead and of the
glorious state of them who shall be found alive in it. Henry, watching
Emma’s face, saw it change and glow as she followed those immortal words,
till at the fifty-third verse and thence to the end of the chapter it became
alight as though with the effulgence of a living faith within her. Indeed, at
the words “for this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal
must put on immortality,” it chanced that a vivid sunbeam breaking from
the grey sky fell full upon the girl’s pale countenance and spiritual
eyes, adding a physical glory to them, and for one brief moment making her
appear, at least in his gaze, as though some such ineffable change had already
overtaken her, and the last victory of the spirit was proclaimed in her person.
[Illustration: ]
‘A vivid sunbeam ... fell upon the
girl’s pale countenance.’
Henry looked at her astonished; and since in his own way he lacked neither
sympathy nor perception, in that instant he came to understand that this woman
was something apart from all the women whom he had known—a being purer
and sweeter, partaking very little of the nature of the earth. And yet his
sister had said that she was half in love with him! Weighing his own
unworthiness, he smiled to himself even then, but with the smile came a thought
that he was by no means certain whether he was not “half in love”
with her himself.
The sunbeam passed, and soon the lesson was finished, and with it the desire
for those things which are not yet, faded from Emma’s eyes, leaving in
the mind of the man who watched her a picture that could never fade.
At lunch Ellen, who had been sitting silent, suddenly awoke from her reverie
and asked Emma what she would like to do that afternoon. Emma replied that she
wished to take a walk if it were convenient to everybody else.
“That will do very well,” said Ellen with decision. “My
brother can escort you down to the Cliff: there is a good view of the sea
there; and after church I will come to meet you. We cannot miss each other, as
there is only one road.”
Henry was about to rebel, for when Ellen issued her orders in this fashion she
invariably excited an opposition in his breast which was sometimes
unreasonable; but glancing at Miss Levinger’s face he noticed that she
seemed pleased at the prospect of a walk, or of his company, he could not tell
which, and held his peace.
“That will be very pleasant,” said Emma, “if it does not bore
you.”
“Not at all; the sea never bores me,” replied Henry. “I will
be ready at three o’clock if that suits you.”
“I must say that you are polite, Henry,” put in his sister in a
sarcastic voice. “If I were Miss Levinger I would walk by myself and
leave you to contemplate the ocean in solitude.”
“I am sure I did not mean to be otherwise, Ellen,” he replied.
“There is nothing wrong in saying that one likes the sea.”
At this moment Lady Graves intervened with some tact, and the subject dropped.
About three o’clock Henry found Emma waiting for him in the hall, and
they started on their walk.
Passing through the park they came to the high road, and for some way went on
side by side in silence. The afternoon was cloudy, but not cold; there had been
rain during the previous night, and all about them were the evidences of
spring, or rather of the coming of summer. Birds sang upon every bush, most of
the trees were clothed in their first green, the ashes, late this year, were
bursting their black buds, the bracken was pushing up its curled fronds in the
sandy banks of the roadway, already the fallen black-thorn bloom lay in patches
like light snow beneath the hedgerows, while here and there pink-tipped
hawthorns were breaking into bloom. As she walked the promise and happy spirit
of the spring seemed to enter into Emma’s blood, for her pale cheeks took
a tinge of colour like that which blushed upon the May-buds, and her eyes grew
joyful.
“Is it not beautiful?” she said suddenly to her companion.
“Well, it would be if there were some sunshine,” he replied, in a
somewhat matter-of-fact way.
“Oh, the sunshine will come. You must not expect everything in this
climate, you know. I am quite content with the spring.”
“Yes,” he answered; “it is very pleasant after the long
winter.”
She hesitated a little, and then said, “To me it is more than pleasant. I
cannot quite tell you what it is, and if I did you would not understand
me.”
“Won’t you try?” he replied, growing interested.
“Well, to me it is a prophecy and a promise; and I think that, although
perhaps they do not understand it, that is why almost all old people love the
spring. It speaks to them of life, life arising more beautiful out of death;
and, perhaps unconsciously, they see in it the type of their own spiritual
fortune and learn from it resignation to their fate.”
“Yes, we heard that in the lesson this morning,” said Henry.
“‘Thou fool! that which thou sowest is not quickened except it
die.’”
“Oh, I know that the thought is an old one,” she answered, with
some confusion, “and I put what I mean very badly, but somehow these
ancient truths always seem new to us when we find them out for ourselves. We
hit upon an idea that has been the common property of men for thousands of
years, and think that we have made a great discovery. I suppose the fact of it
is that there are no new ideas, and you see each of us must work out his own
salvation. I do not mean in a spiritual sense only. Nobody else’s
thoughts or feelings can help us; they may be as old as the world, but when we
feel them or think them, for us they are fresh as the spring. A mother does not
love her child less because millions of mothers have loved _theirs_
before.”
Henry did not attempt to continue the argument. This young lady’s ideas,
if not new, were pretty; but he was not fond of committing himself to
discussion and opinions on such metaphysical subjects, though, like other
intelligent men, he had given them a share of his attention.
“You are very religious, Miss Levinger, are you not?” he said.
“Religious? What made you think so? No; I wish I were. I have certain
beliefs, and I try to be—that is all.”
“It was watching your face in church that gave me the idea, or rather
assured me of the fact,” he answered.
She coloured, and then said: “Why do you ask? You believe in our
religion, do you not?”
“Yes, I believe in it. I think that you will find few men of my
profession who do not—perhaps because their continual contact with the
forces and dangers of nature brings about dependence upon an unseen protecting
Power. Also my experience is that religion in one form or another is necessary
to all human beings. I never knew a man to be quite happy who was devoid of it
in some shape.”
“Religion does not always bring happiness, or even peace,” said
Emma. “My experience is very small—indeed, I have none outside
books and the village—but I have seen it in the case of my own father. I
do not suppose it possible that a man could be more religious than he has been
ever since I can remember much about him; but certainly he is not happy, nor
can he reconcile himself to the idea of death, which to me, except for its
physical side, does not seem such a terrible matter.”
“I should say that your father is a very nervous man,” Henry
answered; “and the conditions of your life and of his may have been quite
different. Everybody feels these things according to his temperament.”
“Yes, he is nervous,” she said; then added suddenly, as though she
wished to change the subject, “Look! there is the sea. How beautiful it
is! Were you not sorry to leave it, Captain Graves?”
By now they had turned off the main road, and, following a lane which was used
to cart sand and shingle from the beach, had reached a chalky slope known as
the Cliff. Below them was a stretch of sand, across which raced the in-coming
tide, and beyond lay the great ocean, blue in the far distance, but marked
towards the shore with parallel lines of white-crested billows.
Hitherto the afternoon had been dull, but as Emma spoke the sunlight broke
through the clouds, cutting a path of glory athwart the sea.
“Sorry to leave it!” he said, staring at the familiar face of the
waters, and speaking almost passionately: “it has pretty well broken my
heart—that is all. I loved my profession, it was everything to me: there
I was somebody, and had a prospect before me; now I am nobody, and have none,
except——” And he stopped.
“And why did you leave?” she asked.
“For the same reason that we all do disagreeable things: because it was
my duty. My brother died, and my family desired my presence, so I was obliged
to retire from the Service, and there is an end of it.”
“I guessed as much,” said Emma softly, “and I am very sorry
for you. Well, we cannot go any farther, so we had better turn.”
Henry nodded an assent, and they walked homewards silently, either because
their conversation was exhausted, or because they were lost in their own
thoughts.
It may be remembered that Mr. Milward had announced his intention of attending
Rosham church that afternoon. As Ellen knew that he was not in the habit of
honouring any place of worship with his presence, this determination of her
admirer gave her cause for thought.
For a year or more Mr. Milward’s attentions towards herself had been
marked, but as yet he had said nothing of a decisive nature. Could it be that
upon this occasion he intended to cross the line which divides attention from
courtship? She believed that he did so intend, for, otherwise, why did he take
the trouble to come several miles to church, and why had he suggested to her
that they might go out walking together afterwards, as he had done privately on
the previous evening? At any rate, if such were his mind, Ellen determined that
he should have every opportunity of declaring it; and it was chiefly for this
reason that she had arranged Emma’s expedition with her brother, since it
would then be easy for her to propose that Mr. Milward should escort herself in
search of them.
Ellen did not deceive herself. She knew Mr. Milward’s faults, his
vulgarity and assumption made her wince, and on the whole perhaps she disliked
him. But on the other hand his admiration flattered her vanity, for many were
the women who had tried to excite it and failed; his wealth appealed to her
love of luxury and place, and she was well aware that, once in the position of
his wife, she could guide his weaker will in whatever direction she desired.
Moreover his faults were all on the surface, he had no secret vices, and she
trusted to her own tact if not to counterbalance, at least to divert attention
from his errors of manner.
In due course Ellen and Lady Graves went to church, but to the private
mortification of the former Mr. Milward did not appear. At length, much to her
relief, towards the middle of the second lesson a disturbance in the nave
behind her assured her of his presence. She would not look round, indeed, but
her knowledge of him told her that nobody else arriving so painfully late would
have ventured to interrupt the congregation in this unnecessary fashion.
Meanwhile Mr. Milward had entered the pew behind her, occupying the same place
that Henry had sat in that morning, whence by many means, such as the dropping
of books and the shifting of hassocks, he endeavoured to attract her attention;
but in vain, for Ellen remained inflexible and would not so much as turn her
head. His efforts, however, did not altogether fail of their effect, inasmuch
as she could see that they drove her mother almost to distraction, for Lady
Graves liked to perform her devotions in quiet.
“My dear,” she whispered to her daughter at the termination of the
service, “I really wish that when he comes to church Mr. Milward could be
persuaded not to disturb other people by his movements, and generally to adopt
a less patronising attitude towards the Almighty,” a sarcasm that in
after days Ellen was careful to repeat to him.
At the doorway they met, and Ellen greeted him with affected surprise:
“I thought that you had given up the idea of coming, Mr. Milward.”
“Oh no; I was a little late, that was all. Did you not hear me come
in?”
“No,” said Ellen sweetly.
“If Ellen did not hear you I am sure that everybody else did, Mr.
Milward,” remarked Lady Graves with some severity, and then with a sigh
she glided away to visit her son’s grave. By this time they were at the
church gate, and Ellen turned up the path that ran across the park to the Hall.
“How about our walk?” said Milward.
“Our walk? Oh! I had forgotten. Do you wish to walk?”
“Yes; that is what I came for.”
“Indeed! I thought you had come to church. Well, my brother and Miss
Levinger have gone to the Cliff, and if you like we can meet them—that
is, unless you think that it is going to rain.”
“Oh no, it won’t rain,” he answered.
In a few minutes they had left the park and were following the same road that
Henry and Emma had taken. But Ellen did not talk of the allegorical mystery of
the spring, nor did Edward Milward set out his views as to the necessity of
religion. On the contrary, he was so silent that Ellen began to be afraid they
would meet the others before he found the courage to do that which, from the
nervousness of his manner, she was now assured he meant to do.
At length it came, and with a rush.
“Ellen,” said Edward in a husky voice.
“I beg your pardon,” replied that young lady with dignity.
“Miss Graves, I mean. I wish to speak to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Milward.”
“I want—to ask—you to marry me.”
Ellen heard the fateful words, and a glow of satisfaction warmed her breast.
She had won the game, and even then she found time to reflect with complacency
upon the insight into character which had taught her from the beginning to
treat her admirer with affected coldness and assumed superiority.
“This is very sudden and unexpected,” she said, gazing over his
head with her steady blue eyes.
Her tone frightened Edward, and he stammered,—
“Do you really think so? You are so clever that I should have thought
that you must have seen it coming for a long while. I know I have only just
been able to prevent myself from proposing on two or three occasions—no,
that’s a mistake, I don’t mean that. Oh! there! Ellen, will you
have me? I know that you are a great deal too good for me in a way—ever
so much cleverer, and all that sort of thing; but I am truly fond of you, I am
really. I am well off, and I know that you would be a credit to me and help me
on in the world, for I want to go into Parliament some time, and—there, I
think that is all I have got to say.”
Ellen considered this speech rapidly. Its manner was somewhat to seek, but its
substance was most satisfactory and left nothing to be desired. Accordingly she
concluded that the time had come when she might with safety unbend a little.
“Really, Mr. Milward,” she said in a softer voice, and looking for
a second into his eyes, “this is very flattering to me, and I am much
touched. I can assure you I had no idea that my friend had become
a”—and Ellen hesitated and even blushed as she murmured the
word—“lover. I think that perhaps it would be best if I considered
your offer for a while, in order that I may make perfectly sure of the state of
my own feelings before I allow myself to say words which would be absolutely
irrevocable, since, were I once to pledge myself——” and she
ceased, overcome.
“Oh! pray don’t take time to consider,” said Edward. “I
know what that means: you will think better of it, and tell me to-morrow that
you can only be a sister to me, or something of the sort.”
Ellen looked at him a while, then said, “Do you really understand what
you ask of me, and mean all you say?”
“Why, of course I do, Ellen: I am not an idiot. What do you suppose I
should mean, if it is not that I want you to marry me?”
“Then, Edward,” she whispered, “I will say yes, now and for
always. I will be your wife.”
“Well, that’s all right,” answered Edward, wiping his brow
with his pocket-handkerchief. “Why couldn’t you tell me so at
first, dear? It would have spared me a great deal of agitation.”
Then it occurred to him that further demonstrations were usual on these
occasions, and, dropping the handkerchief, he made a somewhat clumsy effort to
embrace her. But Ellen was not yet prepared to be kissed by Mr. Milward. She
felt that these amatory proceedings would require a good deal of leading up to,
so far as she was concerned.
“No, no,” she murmured—“not now and here: I am
upset.” And, withdrawing her cheek, she gave him her hand to kiss.
It struck Edward that this was a somewhat poor substitute, more especially as
she was wearing dog-skin gloves, whereon he must press his ardent lips.
However, he made the best of it, and even repeated the salute, when a sound
caused him to look up.
Now, the scene of this passionate encounter was in a lane that ran from the
main road to the coast; moreover, it was badly chosen, for within three paces
of it the lane turned sharply to the right. Down this path, still wrapped in
silence, came Henry and Emma, and as Edward was in the act of kissing
Ellen’s hand, they turned the corner. Emma was the first to perceive them.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a start.
Then Henry saw. “What the deuce!——” he said.
Ellen took in the situation at a glance. It was discomposing, even to a person
of her considerable nerve; but she felt that on the whole nothing could have
happened more opportunely. Recovering themselves, Henry and Emma were beginning
to advance again, as though they had seen nothing, when Ellen whispered
hurriedly to her _fiancé:_
“You must explain to my brother at once.”
“All right,” said Edward. “I say, Graves, I dare say you were
surprised when you saw me kissing Ellen’s hand, weren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Milward, I was surprised.”
“Well, you won’t be any more when I tell you that we are engaged to
be married.”
“Forgive me,” said Henry, somewhat icily: “I am still
surprised.” And in his heart he added, “How could Ellen do
it!—how could she do it!”
Guessing what was passing in his mind, his sister looked at him warningly, and
at that moment Emma began to murmur some confused congratulations. Then they
set out homewards. Presently Ellen, who was a person of decision, and thought
that she had better make the position clear without delay, managed to attach
herself to her brother, leaving the other two to walk ahead out of hearing,
much to their mutual disgust.
“You have not congratulated me, Henry,” she said, in a steady voice.
“Congratulated you, Ellen! Good Lord! how can I congratulate you?”
“And why not, pray? There is nothing against Mr. Milward that I have ever
heard of. His character is irreproachable, and his past has never been
tarnished by any excesses, which is more than can be said of many men. He is
well born, and he has considerable means.”
“Very considerable, I understand,” interrupted Henry.
“And, lastly, he has a most sincere regard for me, as I have for him, and
it was dear Reginald’s greatest wish that this should come about. Now may
I ask you why I am not to be congratulated?”
“Well, if you want to know, because I think him insufferable. I cannot
make out how a lady like yourself can marry such a man just
for——” and he stopped in time.
By this time Ellen was seriously angry, and it must be admitted not altogether
without cause.
“Really, my dear Henry,” she said, in her most bitter tones,
“I am by no means sure that the epithet which you are so good as to apply
to Mr. Milward would not be more suitable to yourself. You always were
impossible, Henry—you see I imitate your frankness—and certainly
your manners and temper have not improved at sea. Please let us come to an
understanding once and for all: I mean to marry Mr. Milward, and if by chance
any action or words of yours should cause that marriage to fall through, I will
never forgive you. On reflection you must admit that this is purely my own
affair. Moreover, you are aware of the circumstances of our family, which by
this prudent and proper alliance _I_ at any rate propose to do _my_
best to improve.”
Henry looked at his stately and handsome sister and the cold anger that was
written on her face, and thought to himself, “On the whole I am sorry for
Milward, who, whatever his failings may be, is probably an honest man in his
way.” But to Ellen he said:
“I apologise. In nautical language, I come up all I have said. You are
quite right: I am a bear—I have often thought so myself—and my
temper, which was never of the best, has been made much worse by all that I
have seen and learned since I returned home, and because I am forced by duty to
leave my profession. You must make allowances for me, and put up with it, and I
for my part will do my best to cultivate a better frame of mind. And now,
Ellen, I offer you my warm congratulations on your engagement. You are of an
age to judge for yourself, and doubtless, as you say, you know your own
business. I hope that you may be happy, and of course I need hardly add, even
if my prejudice makes him uncongenial to me, that I shall do my best to be
friendly with Mr. Milward, and to say nothing that can cause him to think he is
not welcome in our family.”
Ellen heard and smiled: once more she had triumphed. Yet, while the smile was
on her face, a sadness crept into her heart, which, if it was hard and worldly,
was not really bad; feeling, as she did, that this bitterly polite speech of
her brother’s had shut an iron door between them which could never be
reopened. The door was shut, and behind her were the affectionate memories of
childhood and many a loving delusion of her youth. Before her lay wealth and
pride of place, and every luxury, but not a grain of love —unless indeed
she should be so happy as to find the affection whereof death and the other
circumstances of her life and character had deprived her, in the hearts of
children yet to be. From her intended husband, be it noted, when custom had
outworn his passion and admiration for her, she did not expect love even in
this hour of her engagement, and if it were forthcoming she knew that from him
it would not satisfy her. Well, she knew also if she had done with
“love” and other illusions, that she had chosen the better part
according to her philosophy.