COMING TO DINNER.
Miss Winter sat in her low chair by the window of her sitting-room in
the north wing; for though she had abandoned her bedroom in that
quarter, she still, on occasion, sat in that. A closed book lay on her
lap, her chin was resting on the palm of one hand, and her eyes, to
all appearance, were taking in for the thousandth time the features of
the well-known scene before her. But in reality she saw nothing of it:
her thoughts were elsewhere. This was Tuesday, the day fixed for
Edward Conroy to dine at the Hall. How came it that his image--the
image of a man whom she had seen but twice in her life--dwelt so
persistently in her thoughts? She was vexed and annoyed with herself
to find how often her mind went wandering off in a direction where--or
so she thought--it had no right to go. She tried her hardest to keep
it under control, to fill it with the occupations that had hitherto
sufficed for its quiet contentment, but at the first unguarded moment
it was away again, to bask in sunshine, as it were, till caught in the
very act, and haled ignominiously back.
"Why must I be for ever thinking about this man?" she asked herself
petulantly, as she sat this morning by the window, and a warm flush
thrilled her even while the question was on her lips. She was ashamed
to remember that even at church on Sunday morning she could not get
the face of Edward Conroy out of her thoughts. The good vicar's sermon
had been more prosy and commonplace than usual, and do what she might,
Ella could not fix her attention on it. She caught herself half a
dozen times calling to mind what Conroy had said on Thursday, and
wondering what he would say on Tuesday. She had no intention of
falling in love, either with him or with any other man; on that point
she was firmly resolved. She and Maria Kettle had long ago agreed that
they could be of more use in the world, of greater service to the
poor, the sick, and the forlorn among their fellow-creatures, as
single women than as married ones; and Ella, for her part, had no
intention of letting any man carry her heart by storm.
Yet, after making all these brave resolutions, here she was, wondering
and hesitating as to which dress she should wear, as she had never
wondered or hesitated before; and when the clock struck eleven, she
caught herself saying, "In six more hours he will be here." Then she
jumped up quickly with a gesture of impatience. She was the slave of
thoughts over which she seemed to have no control. It was a slavery
that to her proud spirit was intolerable. She could not read this
morning. Her piano appealed to her in vain. Her crewel-work seemed the
tamest of tame occupations. She put on her hat and scarf, and, calling
to Turco, set off at a quick pace across the park. Perhaps the fresh
bracing air that blew over the sand-hills would cool the fever of
unrest that was in her veins. Once she said to herself, "I wish he had
never come to Heron Dyke!" But next moment a proud look came into her
face, and she said, "Why should I fear him more than any other?"
Ella Winter has hitherto been spoken of as though she were Mr.
Denison's niece; she was in reality his grand-niece, being the
grand-daughter of an only sister, who had died early in her married
life, leaving one son behind her. This son, at the age of twenty-two,
married a sister of Mrs. Carlyon, but his wedded life was of brief
duration. Captain Winter and his wife both died of fever in the West
Indies, leaving behind them Ella, their only child.
Mrs. Carlyon, a widow and childless, would gladly have adopted the
orphan niece who came to her under these sad circumstances, but Squire
Denison would not hear of such a thing. He had a prior claim to the
child, he said, and she must go to him and be brought up under his
care. He had no children of his own, and never would have any: Ella
was the youngest and last descendant of the elder branch of the
family, and Heron Dyke and all that pertained to it should be hers in
time to come, provided always that he, Gilbert Denison, should live to
see his seventieth birthday. He had loved his sister Lavinia as much
as it was in his nature to love anyone; and her son, had he lived,
would, in the due course of things, have been his heir. But he was
dead, leaving behind him only this one poor little girl. To Gilbert
Denison it seemed that Providence had dealt very hardly by him in
giving him no male heir to inherit the family honours. He himself
would have married years ago had he anticipated such a result.
For six hundred years the property had come down from male heir to
male heir, but now at last the line of direct succession would be
broken. "If Ella had only been a boy!" he sighed to himself a thousand
times: but Ella was that much more pleasing article--except from the
heir-at-law point of view--a beautiful young woman, and nothing could
make her anything else.
On the confines of the park, just as she was about to turn out of it,
Ella met Captain Lennox, who was coming to call on the Squire. It was
the first time Ella had seen him since her return from London, for the
Captain had been again from home. He had aristocratic relatives, it
was understood, in various parts of the kingdom, and was often away on
visits to them for weeks together.
"You are looking better than you were that night at Mrs. Carlyon's,"
he remarked, as they stood talking.
"Am I?" returned Ella, a rosy blush suffusing her face--for the idea
somehow struck her that Mr. Conroy's presence in the neighbourhood
might be making her look bright.
"Very much so, I think. Mrs. Carlyon was not quite satisfied with your
looks then. By-the-way," added the Captain, after a pause, "has she
recovered her jewels, that were lost that night?"
"No. She is quite in despair. I had a letter from her yesterday. You
heard of the loss then, Captain Lennox?"
"I heard of it the following day. Ill news travels fast," he added
lightly, noting Ella's look of surprise.
"How did you hear of it? I fancied you left London that day."
"No, the next. I heard of it from young Cleeve. He called on Mrs.
Carlyon that morning, and came back in time for me and Bootle to see
him off. Cleeve told us of the loss on the way to the station. It was
a time of losses, Miss Winter. I lost my purse, and poor Bootle his
watch--one he valued--the same night."
"Yes, Freddy told us of it later. He thought you were robbed in the
street."
"I know he thought so. I did at first. But our losses were nothing
compared with Mrs. Carlyon's jewels," continued Captain Lennox
rapidly, as though he would cover his last words. "And the jewel-case
was found the next day; and the thief must have walked off with the
trinkets in his pocket!"
"Just so. And they were worth quite three hundred pounds."
Captain Lennox opened his eyes.
"Three hundred pounds! So much as that! I wonder how they were taken!
By some light-handed fellow, I suppose, who contrived to find his way
upstairs amid the general bustle of the house."
"No, we think not. The servants say it was hardly possible for anyone
to do that unnoticed; Aunt Gertrude thinks the same; And the servants
are all trustworthy. It is a curious matter altogether."
Captain Lennox looked at her.
"Surely you cannot suspect any of the guests?"
"It would be uncharitable to do that," was Ella's light answer. But
the keen-witted Captain noticed that she did not deny it more
emphatically.
"What a pity that the jewels were not safely locked up!" he exclaimed.
"The dressing-room, in which they were, was locked; at least, the key
was turned--and who would be likely to intrude into it? Aunt Gertrude
remembers that perfectly. She found Philip Cleeve lying on the sofa in
her boudoir with a bad headache, and she went into the dressing-room
to get her smelling-salts, unlocking the door to enter. Whether she
relocked it is another matter."
"Did Cleeve notice whether anybody else went in while he was lying
there?"
"He thinks not, but he can't say for certain--we asked him that
question the next morning. He fancies that he fell asleep for a few
minutes: his head was very bad. Anyway, the jewels are gone, and Aunt
Gertrude can get no clue to the thief, so it is hopeless to talk of
it," concluded Ella, somewhat wearily. "How is your sister?"
"Quite well, thank you. Why don't you come and see her?"
"I will; I have been very busy since I came home. And tell her,
please, that I hope she will come to see me. Good-bye for the present,
Captain Lennox: you are going on to my uncle; perhaps you will not be
gone when I get back; I shall not be very long."
Ella tripped lightly on, Turco striding gravely beside her. Captain
Lennox stood for a minute to look after her.
"I wonder," he muttered to himself, stroking his whiskers--a habit of
his when he fell into a brown study--"whether it has crossed Mrs.
Carlyon's mind to suspect Philip Cleeve?"
After all her vacillation, Ella went down to dinner that evening in a
simple white dress. She could hardly have chosen one to suit her
better; at least, so thought Mr. Conroy, when he entered the room. The
dinner was not homely, as on the first occasion of his dining there;
Ella had ordered it otherwise. It was served on some of the grand old
family plate, not often brought to light; and the table was decorated
with flowers from the Vicar's charming garden.
But what surprised Aaron more than anything else was to see his master
dressed, and wearing a white cravat. He went about the house
muttering, _sotto voce_, that there were no fools like old fools,
and if these sort of extravagant doings were about to set in at the
Hall--soups and fish and foreign kickshaws--it was time old-fashioned
attendants went out of it. The Squire, in fact, had so thoroughly
inoculated the old man with his own miserly ways, that for Aaron to
see an extra shilling spent on what he considered unnecessary waste,
was to set him grumbling for a day.
Whether it was that Ella had a secret dread of passing another evening
alone with Conroy, or whether her intention was to render the evening
more attractive to him, she had, in any case, asked her uncle to allow
her to invite the Vicar and Maria, Lady Cleeve and Philip, and Captain
Lennox and his sister, to meet Mr. Conroy at dinner. But here the
Squire proved obstinate. Not one of the people named would he invite,
or indeed anyone else.
"That young artist fellow is welcome to come and take pot-luck with
us," he said, "but I'll have none of the rest. And why I asked him,
I'm sure I don't know. There was something about him, I suppose, that
took my fancy; though what right an invalid man like me has to have
fancies, is more that I can tell."
Conroy seemed quite content to find himself the solitary guest. Ella
was more reserved and silent than he had hitherto seen her, but he
strove to interest her and melt her reserve; and after a time he
succeeded in doing so. Once or twice, at first, when she caught
herself talking to him with animation, or even questioning him with
regard to this or the other, she suddenly subsided into silence,
blushing inwardly as she recognised how futile her resolves and
intentions had proved themselves to be. Conroy seemed not to notice
these abrupt changes, and in a little while Ella would again become
interested, again her eyes would sparkle, and eager questions tremble
on her lips. Then all at once an inward sting would prick her, her
lips would harden into marble firmness and silence. But these
alternations of mood could not last for ever, and by-and-by the charm
and fascination of the situation proved too much for her. "After this
evening I shall probably never see him again," she pleaded to herself,
as if arguing with some inward monitor. "What harm can there be if I
enjoy these few brief hours?"
Mr. Denison was more than usually silent. Now and then, after dinner,
he dozed for a few minutes in his huge leathern chair; and presently,
as though he yearned to be alone, he suggested that Conroy and Ella
should take a turn in the grounds.
Ella wrapped a fleecy shawl round her white dress, and they set out.
Traces of sunset splendour still lingered in the western sky, but from
minute to minute the dying colours changed and deepened: saffron
flecked with gold fading into sea-green, and that into a succession of
soft opaline tints and pearly greys, edged here and there with
delicate amber; while in mid-sky the drowsy wings of darkness were
creeping slowly down.
They walked on through the dewy twilight glades of the park. Conroy
seemed all at once to have lost his speech. Neither of them had much
to say, but to both the silence exhaled a subtle sweetness. There are
moments when words seem a superfluity--almost on impertinence. To
live, to breathe--to feel that beside you is the living, breathing
presence of the one supremely loved, is all that you ask for. It is
well, perhaps, that such sweetly dangerous moments come so seldom in a
lifetime.
They left the park by a wicket, took a winding footway through the
plantation beyond, and reached the sand-hills, where they sat down for
a few moments. Before them lay the sea, touched in mid-distance with
faint broken bars of silvery light; for by this time the moon had
risen, and all the vast spaces of the sky were growing brighter with
her presence.
"How this scene will dwell in my memory when I am far away!" exclaimed
Conroy at length.
"Are you going far away?" asked Ella, in a low voice.
"I received a letter from head-quarters this morning, bidding me hold
myself in readiness to start for Africa at a few hours' notice."
"For Africa! That is indeed a long way off. Why should you be required
to go to Africa?"
"The King of Ashantee is growing troublesome. We are likely before
long to get from words to blows. War may be declared at any moment."
"And the moment war is declared you must be ready to start?"
"Even so. Wherever I am sent, there I must go."
"Yours is a dangerous vocation, Mr. Conroy. You run many risks."
"A few--not many. As for danger, there is just enough of it to make
the life a fascinating one."
"Yes; if I were a man I don't think I could settle down into a quiet
country gentleman. I should crave for a wider horizon, for a more
adventurous life, for change, for----"
She ended abruptly. Once again her enthusiasm was running away with
her. There was a moment's silence, and then she went on, laughing:
"But I am content to be as I am, and to leave such wild rovings to you
gentlemen! And now we must go back to my uncle, or he will wonder what
has become of us."
Little was said during the walk back. Despite herself, Ella's heart
sank at the thought of Conroy's going so far away. She asked, mentally
and impatiently, what it could matter to her where he went. Had she
not said twenty times that tomorrow all this would seem like a dream,
and that in all likelihood she and Conroy would never meet again? What
matter, then, so long as they did not see each other, whether they
were separated by five miles or five thousand?
"Body o' me! I thought you were lost," exclaimed the Squire, as they
re-entered the room. "Been for a ramble, eh? seen the sea! Fine
evening for it. And when do you come down into this part of the
country again, Mr. Sketcher?"
"That is more than I can say, sir. My movements are most erratic and
uncertain."
"Mr. Conroy thinks it not unlikely he may be sent to Africa--to
Ashantee," said Ella, a little ring of pathos in her voice.
"Ah--ah--nothing like plenty of change when you are young. Bad
climate, though, Ashantee, isn't it? You'll have to be careful Yellow
Jack doesn't lay you by the heels. He's a deuce of a fellow out there,
from all I've heard. Eh?"
"I must take my chance of that, sir, as other people have to do."
"You talk like a lad of spirit. Snap your fingers in the face of
Yellow Jack, and ten to one he'll glance at you and pass you by. It's
the tremblers he lays hold of first."
"Why should you be chosen, Mr. Conroy, for these posts of danger?"
inquired Ella. "Cannot some one else share such duties?"
"Is it not possible that I may prefer such duties to any other? They
do not suit everyone. As it happens they suit me."
"Have you no mother or sister--who may fear your running into
unnecessary dangers?"
"I have neither mother nor sister. I have a father; but he lets me do
what seems right in my own eyes."
Mr. Denison took what for him was a very cordial leave of Conroy.
"If I am alive when you come back," he said, as he held the younger
man's hand in his for a moment, "do not forget that there will be a
welcome for you at Heron Dyke. If I am not alive--then it won't
matter, so far as I am concerned."
Ella took leave of Conroy at the door. Hardly more than a dozen words
passed between them.
"If you must go to Africa," she said, "I hope you will not run any
needless risks."
"I will not. I promise it."
"We shall often think of you," she added, in a low voice.
"And I of you, be you very sure."
Her fingers were resting in his hand. He bent and pressed them to his
lips, and--the next moment he was gone.