ELLEN GROWS ALARMED.
On the morrow Henry had his first long interview with his mother and Ellen, who
again detailed to him those particulars of his illness of which he had no
memory, speaking more especially of the events of the afternoon and evening
when he was supposed to be dying. To these Ellen added her version of the
incident of Emma’s fainting fit, which, although it was more ample, did
not differ materially from that given him by Joan.
“I have heard about this,” said Henry, when she paused; “and
I am sorry that my illness should have pained Miss Levinger so much.”
“You have heard about it? Who told you—Dr. Childs?”
“No; Joan Haste, who is nursing me.”
“Then I can only say that she had no business to do so. It is bad enough
that this young woman, to whom we certainly owe no gratitude, should have
thrust herself upon us at such a terrible moment; but it is worse that, after
acting the spy on poor Emma’s grief, she should have the hardihood to
come and tell you that she had done so, and to describe what passed.”
“You must really excuse me, Ellen,” her brother answered;
“but I for one owe a great deal of gratitude to Joan Haste— indeed,
had it not been for her care, I doubt if I should be here to be grateful
to-day. Also it does not seem to have struck you that probably she took some
interest in my case, and that her motive was not to spy upon you, but to hear
what the doctor had to say.”
“A great deal of interest—too much, indeed, I think,” said
Ellen drily; and then checked herself, for, with a warning glance at her
daughter, Lady Graves suddenly changed the conversation.
A few minutes later his mother went out of the room to speak to Mrs.
Gillingwater, leaving Ellen and Henry alone.
“I am sorry, dear, if I spoke sharply just now,” said Ellen
presently. “I am afraid that I am an argumentative creature, and it is
not good for you to argue at present. But, to tell the truth, I was a little
put out because you took the story of dear Emma’s distress so coolly, and
also because I had wished to be the first to tell it to you.”
“I did not mean to take it coolly, Ellen, and I can only repeat that I am
sorry. I think it a pity that a girl of Miss Levinger’s emotional
temperament, who probably has had no previous experience of illness threatening
the life of a friend, should have been exposed to such a strain upon her
nerves.”
“A friend—a friend?” ejaculated Ellen, arching her eyebrows.
“Yes, a friend—at least I suppose that I may call myself so.
Really, Ellen, you mystify me,” he added petulantly.
“Really, Henry, you astonish me,” his sister answered.
“Either you are the most simple of men, or you are pretending ignorance
out of sheer contrariness.”
“Perhaps if you would not mind explaining, it might simplify matters,
Ellen. I never was good at guessing riddles, and a fall off a church tower has
not improved my wits.”
“Oh, how can you talk in that way! Don’t you remember what I told
you when you came home?”
“You told me a good many things, Ellen, most of which were more or less
disagreeable.”
“I told you that Emma Levinger was half in love with you, Henry.”
“Yes, I know you did; and I didn’t believe you.”
“Well, perhaps you will believe me now, when I say that she is wholly in
love with you—as much in love as ever woman was with man.”
“No,” said Henry, shaking his head; “I don’t wish to
contradict, but I must decline to believe that.”
“Was there ever so obstinate a person! Listen now, and if you are not
satisfied of the truth of what I say, ask mother, ask Mr. Levinger, ask the
girl herself.” And word for word she repeated the passionate confession
that had been wrung from poor Emma’s agony. “Now will you believe
me?” she said.
“It seems that I must,” he answered, after a pause; “though I
think it quite possible that Miss Levinger’s words sprang from her
excitement, and did not mean what they appeared to convey. I think also, Ellen,
that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for repeating to me what slipped from
her in a moment of mental strain, and thus putting her in a false position.
Supposing that the doctor, or Joan Haste, were to tell you every foolish thing
which I may have uttered during my delirium, what would you think of them, I
wonder? Still, I dare say that I led you on and you meant it kindly; but after
this I am sure I do not know how I shall dare to look that poor girl in the
face. And now I think I am a little tired. Would you call Mrs. Gillingwater or
some one?”
Ellen left her brother’s room in a state of irritation which was not the
less intense because it was suppressed. She felt that her _coup_ had not
come off—that she had even made matters worse instead of better. She had
calculated, if Henry’s affections were not touched, that at least his
vanity would be flattered, by the tale of Emma’s dramatic exhibition of
feeling: indeed, for aught she knew, either or both of these conjectures might
be correct; but she was obliged to confess that he had given no sign by which
she could interpret his mind in any such sense. The signs were all the other
way, indeed, for he had taken the opportunity to lecture her on her breach of
confidence, and it angered her to know that the reproof was deserved. In truth,
she was so desperately anxious to bring about this marriage as soon as
possible, that she had allowed herself to be carried away, with the result, as
she now saw, of hindering her own object.
Ellen had a very imperfect appreciation of her brother’s character. She
believed him to be cold and pharisaical, and under this latter head she set
down his notions concerning the contraction of marriages that chanced to be
satisfactory from a money point of view. It did not enter into her estimate of
him to presume that he might possess a delicacy of feeling which was lacking in
her own nature; that the idea of being thrust into marriage with any woman in
order to relieve the pecuniary necessities of his family, might revolt him to
the extent of causing a person, whom perhaps he would otherwise have loved, to
become almost distasteful to him. She did not understand even that the
premature and unsought declaration of affection for himself on the part of the
lady who was designed by others to be his wife, might produce a somewhat
similar effect. And yet a very slight consideration of the principles of human
nature would have taught her that this was likely to be the case.
These were solutions of Henry’s conduct that did not suggest themselves
to Ellen, or, if they did, she dismissed them contemptuously in her search for
a more plausible explanation. Soon she found one which seemed to explain
everything: Joan was the explanation. Nothing escaped Ellen’s quick eyes,
and she had noticed that Joan also was distressed at Henry’s danger. She
had marked, moreover, how he clung to this girl, refusing to be parted from her
even in his delirium, and with what tenderness she nursed him; and she knew how
often men fall in love with women who tend them in sickness.
Now, although she did not like Joan Haste, and resented as an impertinence, or
worse, her conduct in following Dr. Childs to the parlour and reporting what
took place there to Henry, Ellen could not deny that she was handsome, indeed
beautiful, or that her manners were refined beyond what was to be expected of
one in her station, and her bearing both gracious and dignified. Was it not
possible, Ellen reflected, that these charms had produced an effect even upon
her puritan brother, who already expressed his gratitude with such unnecessary
warmth?
The thought filled her with alarm, for if once Henry became entangled with this
village beauty, she knew enough of him to be sure that there would be an end of
any prospect of his engagement to Emma—at least for the present.
Meanwhile the girl was about him all day and every day, and never had a woman a
better opportunity of carrying her nefarious schemes to a successful issue; for
that Joan had schemes she soon ceased to doubt.
In this dilemma Ellen took counsel with her _fiancé,_ whom she knew
to possess a certain shrewdness; for she preferred to say nothing to her
mother, and Sir Reginald was so unwell that he could not be troubled with such
matters. By this time Edward Milward was aware that the Graves family desired
greatly to bring about a match between Henry and Emma, though he was not aware
how pressing were the money difficulties which led them to be anxious for this
alliance. He listened with interest to Ellen’s tale, then chuckled and
said,—
“Depend upon it you have knocked the right nail on the head as usual,
Ellen. Those sanctimonious fellows like your brother are always the deepest,
and of course he is playing his little game.”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘his little game,’
Edward, and I wish that you would not use such vulgar expressions to me; nor
can I see how Henry can be playing anything, considering that he never saw this
person till the day of his accident, and that he has been laid up in bed ever
since.”
“Oh, well, he is getting ready to play it, which is much the same thing,
and of course it puts him off the other girl. I am sure I don’t blame him
either, for I think that Joan— what’s her name—is about the
loveliest woman I ever saw, and one can’t wonder that he prefers her to
that—thin ghost of a Miss Levinger with her die-away airs and graces.
After all flesh and blood is the thing, and you may depend upon it Henry thinks
so.”
In this speech, had he but known it, Edward contrived to offend his betrothed
in at least three separate ways, but she thought it prudent to suppress her
resentment, at any rate for the moment.
“Do you think, dear,” Ellen said blandly, “that you could
manage to remember that you are not in a club smoking-room? I did not ask for
these reflections; I asked you to give me your advice as to the best way to
deal with a difficulty.”
“All right, love: please don’t look so superior; and save up your
sarcasm for the wicked Henry. As for my advice, here it is in a nutshell: get
the girl out of his way, and then perhaps he will begin to think of the other
one, to whom you are so anxious to tie him up, though I can’t say that I
consider the connection desirable myself.”
Having delivered himself thus, Edward put his hands into his pockets and
strolled off in a huff. Although he was not thin-skinned, to tell the truth
Ellen’s slings and arrows sometimes irritated this young man.
“I wonder if she will always go on like this after we are married?”
he thought to himself. “Perhaps she’ll get worse. What’s that
about a green and a dry tree? She’s dry enough anyway when she likes, and
sometimes I think that I am pretty green. By George! if I believed that she
always meant to keep up this game of snubs and sharp answers, fond as I am of
her, I think I would cut the show before it is too late. There are a good many
things that I don’t like about it; I sometimes suspect that the whole set
of them are pretty well broke, and I don’t want to marry into a bankrupt
family. Then that fellow Henry is an infernal prig, not but what I would be
careful to see precious little of him. I wonder why Ellen is so anxious that he
should take up with the Levinger girl? From all I can find out the father is a
disreputable old customer, who made a low marriage, and whom everybody declines
to know. It is shady, deuced shady,” and, filled with these gloomy
musings, Edward made his way into the dining-room to lunch.
Here Ellen, who in the interval had bethought herself that she was showing a
little too much of the iron hand, received him graciously enough: indeed, she
was so affectionate and pleasant in her manner, that before the afternoon was
over Edward’s doubts were dispelled, and he forgot that he had that
morning contemplated a step so serious as the breaking off of his engagement.
However coarsely he might express himself, Ellen had wit enough to see that
Edward’s advice was of the soundest. Certainly it was desirable that Joan
Haste should be got rid of, but how was this to be brought about? She could not
tell her to go, nor could she desire Mrs. Gillingwater to order her out of the
house. Ellen pondered the question deeply, and after sleeping a night over it
she came to the conclusion that she would take Mr. Levinger into her counsel.
She knew him to be a shrewd and resourceful man; she knew, moreover—for
her father had repeated the gist of the conversation between them—that he
was bent upon the marriage of Henry with his daughter; and lastly she knew that
he was the landlord of the Crown and Mitre, in which the Gillingwaters lived.
Surely, therefore, if anyone could get rid of Joan, Mr. Levinger would be able
to do so.
As it chanced upon this particular morning, Ellen was to drive over in the
dog-cart to lunch at Monk’s Lodge, calling at the Crown and Mitre on her
way through Bradmouth in order to hear the latest news of Henry. This programme
she carried out, only stopping long enough at the inn, however, to run to her
brother’s room for a minute while the cart waited at the door. Here she
discovered him propped up with pillows, while by his side was seated Joan,
engaged in reading, to him, and, worse still, in reading poetry. Now, for
poetry in the abstract Ellen did not greatly care, but she had heard the tale
of Paolo and Francesca, and knew well that when a young man and woman are found
reading verses together, it may be taken as a sign that they are very much in
sympathy.
“Good morning, Henry,” said Ellen. “Good gracious, my dear!
what are you doing?”
“Good morning, Ellen,” he answered. “I am enjoying myself
listening to Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very
nicely indeed.”
Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and stood
book in hand.
“I had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense, especially
so early in the morning,” she said, glancing round, “when I see
that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the poetry. I only
came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going to lunch with the
Levingers. Have you any message for them?”
“Nothing particular,” he said precisely, and with a slight
hardening of his face, “except my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her
note and the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me.”
“Very well, then; I will go on, as I don’t want to keep the mare
standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon.” And
she went without waiting for an answer.
“I wished to ask her how my father was,” said Henry, “but she
never gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on,
Joan.”
“No, sir; if you will excuse me, I don’t think that I will read any
more poetry.”
“Why not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty years
since I have seen a line of Lancelot and Elaine.” And he looked at her,
waiting for an answer.
“Because,” blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, “because
Miss Graves doesn’t wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is
right, and it is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to say
that the room wasn’t dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it
yourself after aunt left.”
“My dear girl, don’t distress yourself,” Henry answered, with
more tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. “I really
am not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to who
should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be upset, quite
unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this morning and compromise
on the _Times._”
Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards
Monk’s Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour.
Monk’s Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was
surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east, however,
stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf, not more than a
hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of the house commanded an
uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the building lay the gardens, which
were old-fashioned and beautiful, and sheltered by the encircling belts of
firs; but in front were neither trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly
gales, and the salt spray which drifted thither in times of storm, would not
allow of their growth.
Descending from the dog-cart, Ellen was shown through the house into the
garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to read, under the
shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still.
“How good of you to come, Ellen!” she said, springing
up,—“and so early too.”
“I can’t take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my
dear,” Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; “it is pleasant
to escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I have
been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and other things,
my life at home is one long worry just now.”
“It ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married,” said Emma
interrogatively.
“Even engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover one
day,” she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Edward
is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at times: he is
too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible, for you know I am an
independent person and do not like to have some one always running after me
like a nurse with a child.”
“Perhaps he will give up that when you are married,” said Emma
doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable
friend—for at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she was
rather formidable— as the constant object and recipient of _petits
soins_ and sweet murmured nothings.
“Possibly he will,” answered Ellen decisively. “By the way, I
just called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with the
note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his kindest regards,
and to say that he was much touched by your thought of him.”
“They were lilies, not roses,” answered Emma, looking down.
“I meant lilies,—did I say roses?” said Ellen innocently.
“And, talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear.”
“I am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal worried
lately.”
“Worried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?”
“Nobody. It is—my own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt
worried in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know.”
Ellen shook her head. “I am not clever, like you,” she said,
smiling, “and I don’t understand parables. If you want my advice
you must come down to my level and speak plainly.”
Emma turned, and walked slowly from the shadow of the cedar tree into the
golden flood of sunlight. Very slowly she passed down the gravel path, that was
bordered by blooming roses, pausing now and again as though to admire some
particular flower.
“She looks more like a white butterfly than a woman, in that dress of
hers,” thought Ellen, who was watching her curiously; “and really
it would not seem wonderful if she floated away and vanished. It is hot out
there, and I think that I had better not follow her. She has something to say,
and will come back presently.”
She was right. After a somewhat prolonged halt at the end of the path, Emma
turned and walked, or rather flitted, straight back to the cedar tree.
“I will speak plainly,” she said, “though I could not make up
my mind to do so at first. I am ashamed of myself, Ellen—so bitterly
ashamed that sometimes I feel as though I should like to run away and never be
seen again.”
“And why, my dear?” asked Ellen, lifting her eyes. “What
dreadful crime have you committed, that you should suffer such remorse?”
“No crime, but a folly, which they say is worse,—an unpardonable
folly. You know what I mean,—those words that I said when your brother
was supposed to be dying. You must have heard them.”
“Yes, I heard them; and now that he is not dying, they please me more
than any words that I ever listened to from your lips. It is my dearest wish
that things should come about between Henry and you as I am sure that they will
come about, now that I know your mind towards him.”
“If they please you, the memory of them tortures me,” Emma
answered, passionately clenching her slim white hands. “Oh! how could I
be so shameless as to declare my— my love for a man who has never spoken
a single affectionate word to me, who probably looks on me with utter
indifference, or, for aught I know, with dislike! And the worst of it is I
cannot excuse myself: I cannot say that they were nonsense uttered in a moment
of fear and excitement, for it was the truth, the dreadful truth, that broke
from me, and which I had no power to withhold. I do love him; I have loved him
from the day when I first saw him, nearly two years ago, as I shall always love
him; and that is why I am disgraced.”
“Really, Emma, I cannot see what there is shocking in a girl becoming
fond of a man. You are not the first person to whom such a thing has
happened.”
“No, there is nothing shocking in the love itself. So long as I kept it
secret it was good and holy, a light by which I could guide my life; but now
that I have blurted it, it is dishonoured, and I am dishonoured with it. That I
was myself half dead with the agony of suspense is no excuse: I say that I am
dishonoured.”
To the listening Ellen all these sentiments, natural as they might be to a girl
of Emma’s exalted temperament and spotless purity of mind, were as
speeches made in the Hebrew tongue indeed, within herself she did not hesitate
to characterise her friend as “a high-flown little idiot.” But, as
she could not quite see what would be the best line to take in answering her,
she satisfied herself with shaking her head as though in dissent, and looking
sympathetic.
“What torments me most,” went on Emma, who by now was thoroughly
worked up—“I can say it to you, for you are a woman and will
understand—is the thought that those shameless words might possibly come
to your brother’s ears. Three people heard them,—Lady Graves,
yourself and my father. Of course I know that neither you nor your mother would
betray me, for, as I say, you are women and will feel for me; but, oh! I cannot
be sure of my father. I know what he desires; and if he thought that he could
advance his object, I am not certain that I could trust him no, although he has
promised to be silent: though, indeed, to tell your brother would be the surest
way to defeat himself; for, did he learn the truth, such a man would despise me
for ever.”
“My dear girl,” said Ellen boldly, for she felt that the situation
required courage, “do calm yourself. Of course no one would dream of
betraying to Henry what you insist upon calling an indiscretion, but what I
thought a very beautiful avowal made under touching circumstances.” Then
she paused, and added reflectively, “I only see one danger.”
“What danger?” asked Emma.
“Well, it has to do with that girl—Joan somebody— who brought
about all this trouble, and who is nursing Henry, very much against my wish. I
happen to have found out that she was listening at the door when Dr. Childs
came into the room that night, just before you fainted, and it is impossible to
say how long she had been there, and equally impossible to answer for her
discretion.”
“Joan Haste—that lovely woman! Of course she heard, and of course
she will tell him. I was afraid of her the moment that I saw her, and now I
begin to see why, though I believe that this is only the beginning of the evils
which she will bring upon me. I am sure of it: I feel it in my heart.”
“I think that you are alarming yourself quite unnecessarily, Emma. It is
possible that this girl may repeat anything that she chances to overhear, and
it is probable that she will do her best to strike up a flirtation with Henry,
if he is foolish enough to allow it; for persons of this kind always avail
themselves of such an opportunity—generally with a view to future
compensation. But Henry is a cautious individual, who has never been known to
commit himself in that fashion, and I don’t see why he should begin now
though I do think it would be a good thing if that young lady could be sent
about her business. At the worst, however, there would only be some temporary
entanglement, such as happens every day, and means nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious? I am sure it would be serious enough if that girl had
to do with it: she is not a flirt—she looks too strong and earnest for
that kind of thing; and if once she made him fond of her, she would never let
him go.”
“Perhaps,” answered Ellen; “but first of all she has to make
him fond of her, and I have reasons for knowing, even if she wishes to do this,
that she will find it a little difficult.”
“What reasons?” asked Emma.
“Only that a man like Henry does not generally fall in love with two
women at the same time,” Ellen answered drily.
“Is he—is he already in love, then?”
“Yes, dear; unless I am very much mistaken, he is already in
love—with you.”
“I doubt it,” Emma answered, shaking her head. “But even if
it should be so, there will be an end of it if he hears of my behaviour on that
night. And he is sure to hear: I know that he will hear.”
And, as though overcome by the bitterness of her position, Emma put her hands
before her eyes, then turned suddenly and walked into the house.