Alone--alone once more in her bedroom, the scene of so many bitter
tears, Ella stood with flushed cheeks, and eyes that seemed to burn,
thinking of the words that had been uttered to her that day. She held
the crushed rose in her hand--the flower Laura had with cruel hand
snatched away and cast down, and upon which she had trampled with as
little remorse as upon her feelings. But the agitated girl had once
more secured the torn blossom, to stand gazing down upon its bruised
petals.
What did he say? That he loved her--her whom he had seen so few times!
He loved her: he, the heir to a baronetcy, loved her--a poor governess,
the persecuted, despised dependent of this family--that his love for her
was as pure as that white blossom! It could not be. And yet he had
spoken so earnestly; his voice trembled, and those low soft utterances
so tenderly, so feelingly whispered, so full of appeal and reverence,
were evidently genuine. They were not the words of the thoughtless, the
lovers of conquest, the distributors of vain compliments, empty
nothings, to every woman who was the toy of the hour. And he was no
weak boy, ready to be led away by a fresh face--no empty-headed coxcomb,
but a man of sterling worth.
There was a plain, straightforward, manly simplicity in what he had said
that went home to her heart; there was a nobility in his disappointment
and anger which made her thrill with the awakening of new thoughts, new
senses, that had before lain dormant in her breast; there was the
sterling ring of the true gentleman in his every act and look and word,
and--Ah, but--no--no--no! She was mad to harbour such thoughts, even
for an instant; it was folly--all folly. How could she accept him, even
if her heart leaned that way? It would be doing him a grievous wrong,
blighting his prospects, tying him down to one unworthy of his regard.
She could not--she did not love him. Love! What was it to love? She
had loved those who were no more; but love him, a stranger! What was it
to love?
Beat, beat!--beat, beat!--beat, beat! Heavy throbbings of her poor
wounded heart answering the question she had asked, plainly, and in a
way that would not be ignored, even though she pressed that
flower-burdened hand tightly over the place, and laid the other upon her
hot and tingling cheeks. But even if she knew it, could she own to it?
No! impossible; not even to herself. That was a secret she could not
ponder on, even for an instant.
And yet he had said that he loved her! What were his words? She must
recall them once more: that his love for her was as truthful and as pure
as that flower--that poor crushed rose.
As she thought on, flushed and trembling, she raised the flower nearer
and nearer to her face, gazing at the bruised petals, crushed, torn, and
disfigured. It was to her as the reading of a prophecy--that his pure
love for her was to become torn and sullied, and that, for her sake, he
was to suffer bitter anguish, till, like that flower, his love should
wither away. But there would still be the recollection of the sweet
words, even as there stayed in the crushed blossom its own sweet
perfume, the incense-breathing fragrance, as she raised it more and more
till the hot tears began to fell.
No, she did not love him--she could not love him: it was folly--all a
dream from which she was awaking; for she knew the end--she knew her
days at the Elms must be but few--that, like a discarded servant, she
must go: whither she knew not, only that it must be far away--somewhere
to dream no more, neither to be persecuted for what she could not help.
No; she did not love him, and he would soon forget her. It could be but
a passing fancy. But she esteemed him--she must own to a deep feeling
of esteem for one of so noble, frank, and generous a nature. Had he not
always been kind and gentle and sympathising--displaying his liking for
her with a gentlemanly respect that had won upon her more and more?
Yes, she esteemed him too well, she was too grateful, to injure him ever
so slightly; and her greatest act of kindness would be to hurry away.
The fragrance from the poor crushed flower still rose, breathing, as it
were, such love and sweetness; recalling, too, the words with which it
was given so vividly, that, betrayed beyond her strength to control the
act, for one brief instant Ella's lips were pressed softly, lovingly,
upon the flower--petals kissing petals--the bright bee-stung and ruddy
touching the pale and crushed; and then, firmly and slowly, though each
act seemed to send a pang through her throbbing heart, Ella plucked the
rose in pieces, telling herself that she was tearing forth the mad
passion as she went on showering down the creamy leaflets, raining upon
them her tears the while, till the bare stalk alone remained in her
hands--her cruel hands; for had she not been tearing and rending her own
poor breast as every petal was plucked from its hold? For what availed
the deceit? The time had been short--they had met but seldom: but what
of that? The secret would burst forth, would assert itself; and she
knew that she loved him dearly--loved him so that she would give her
life for his sake; and that to have been his slave--to have been but
near him--to listen to his voice--to see his broad white forehead, his
sun-tinged cheeks, and clustering brown hair; not to be called his, but
only to be near him--would be life to her; while to go far--far--far
away, where she might never see him more, would be, as it were,
tottering even into her grave.
No; there was no one looking: it was close upon midnight, but she
glanced guiltily round, as with burning cheeks she sank upon her knees,
whispering to that wild beating heart that it could not be wrong. And
then she began to slowly gather those petals, taking them up softly one
by one, to treasure somewhere--to gaze upon, perhaps, sometimes in
secret; for was it not his gift that she had cast down as if it had been
naught? She might surely treasure them up to keep in remembrance of
what might have been, had hers been a happier lot.
Then came once more the thoughts of the past evening, and more than ever
she felt that she must go. She would see him no more, and he would soon
forget it all. But would she forget? A sob was the answer--a wild
hysterical sob--as she felt that she could not.
One by one, one by one, she gathered those leaflets up to kiss them once
again; and that night, flush-cheeked and fevered, she slept with the
fragments of the blossom pressed tightly to her aching breast, till calm
came with the earliest dawn, and with the lightening sky dreams of hope
and love and happiness to come, with brighter days and loving friends,
and all joyous and blissful. She was walking where white rose petals
showered down to carpet the earth; the air was sweet with their
fragrance, and she was leaning upon his stout arm as he whispered to her
of a love truthful and pure as the flowers around; and then she awoke to
the bare chill of her own stiffly-papered, poorly-furnished room, as
seen in the grey dawn of a pouring wet morning, with the wind howling
dismally in the great old-fashioned chimney, the rain pattering loudly
against the window-panes, and hanging in great trembling beads from the
sash. It was a fit morning, on the whole, to raise the spirits of one
who was dejected, spiritless, almost heart-broken; find it was no wonder
that Ella Bedford's head sank once more upon the pillow, which soon
became wet with her bitter tears.
For how could she meet the different members of that family? She felt
as if she was guilty; and yet what had she done? It was not of her
seeking. She could have wept again and again in the despair and
bitterness of her heart; but her eyes were dried now, and she began to
ponder over the scenes of the past night.
She rose at last to go down to the schoolroom, for it was fast
approaching eight, and as she descended, her mind was made up as to her
future proceedings. She would go carefully on with her duties; but in
the course of the morning, if not sent for sooner, she would herself
seek Mrs Bray, and ask to be set at liberty, so that she might
elsewhere seek a home--one that should afford her rest and peace.
Volume 1, Chapter XIX.