POD'S REVELATION.
Miss Lloyd pleaded a violent headache as an excuse for her
non-attendance at the breakfast-table the morning after the scene
between herself and Gerald in the back drawing-room. She felt as if
she could not face any one for a little while; but, more than all, the
possibility of meeting Gerald frightened her. To have gone in to
breakfast, and have found him there, would have set her heart
fluttering and have brought the tell-tale colour to her cheeks, and
would almost infallibly have betrayed her secret to every one. No; she
felt as if she could not meet any one just yet--that she did not want
to meet anyone. She asked for no greater happiness at present than to
sit alone by her dressing-room fire, and live over again in memory
last night's wondrous scene. She had only to shut her eyes, and every
word, and look, and tone, came back to her with the most realistic
force. What a change three short minutes had wrought in her life! She
seemed to have lived a hundred years since yesterday morning; or,
rather, the Eleanor Lloyd of yesterday was dead and buried--dead and
buried because the poor creature had not known what it was to love!
It was, indeed, like the beginning of a new life to her. "To think
that I have been loving him all along, and did not know it!" she said
to herself, with a little laugh. "I wonder how long it is since he
first found out that he loved me. I will make him tell me all about it
after awhile."
Then her cheeks flushed, and her heart beat faster at the thought of
all that such a sweet possibility implied.
"How glad I am that he is poor and I am rich," she said. "All that I
have shall be his. My money will lend wings to his ambition." Then
came the thought, "When shall I see him again, and what will he say
when I do see him?"
She felt that she dreaded and yet longed for the time to come when
they should meet again. It would be trying enough to have to meet him
in the company of others, but the thought of encountering him alone,
while sending a delicious thrill through her, made her quake with
fear.
On one point she was quite determined--she would shun a private
interview with him as long as possible. She was quite aware that such
an interview must take place sooner or later, but it should be
altogether of his seeking, not of hers. She knew her own weakness. She
knew that whenever Mr. Pomeroy should say to her, "Eleanor, I love
you, and I want you to become my wife," all power of resistance would
be taken from her, and that she should have no alternative but to
yield. At present she had not yielded, and she would try to keep out
of his way for a little while longer. When next he should encounter
her, the spear of his love would smite her, and she must needs become
his bondswoman for ever.
Lady Dudgeon sent some breakfast upstairs, and, by-and-by, she made
her appearance in person. She wanted to satisfy herself that there was
nothing seriously the matter with Miss Lloyd. It was but a simple
headache, Eleanor informed her.
"But you are slightly feverish, child," persisted her ladyship; "and
you look as if you had not had enough sleep."
Which statement was true enough. Some sensible young ladies there are
whose healthy slumbers not even the imprint of Love's first kiss upon
their lips has the slightest power to disturb; but not one of such
strong-minded maidens was our foolish Eleanor.
"I will look up again about eleven," said her ladyship, "and if you
are not better by that time I shall make you up a little mixture of my
own."
Eleanor promised herself that she would be better by that time, as her
ladyship's mixtures--she prided herself on being able to physic all
her household without calling in the doctor--had the invariable
property of being excessively nauseous.
She hugged herself with a little shiver of delight when she was left
alone again to think her own thoughts. What a surprise it would be to
Lady Dudgeon--and, indeed, to everybody! Of course, she would be told
that Mr. Pomeroy had only made love to her because she was rich; but
in her own heart she knew so much better than that!
All at once it struck her that there were one or two notes she ought
to write this morning; so she went to her davenport, and took pen and
paper. But, somehow, her thoughts would go wool-gathering, and the
notes refused to get themselves written. Then she began to scribble on
the sheet before her. She wrote her own name several times over, and
then, without knowing it, she found that she had written "John
Pomeroy." Really, it looked very nice. Then the question put itself to
her--"How should I have to address him in case he were to ask me to
write to him?" Then she wrote, "Dear Mr. Pomeroy;" but that would be
too formal as between engaged people. Then she tried, "My dear John,"
and "My darling John"--decided improvements both. Then, with the tip
of the pen between her lips, and her head a little on one side, she
studied the general effect of what she had written. Not satisfied with
that, and being quite sure that she was all alone, she tried the
effect of speaking the magic words aloud--though, indeed, it was
little more than a timid whisper. Every syllable spoken thus was full
of hidden music. Then she took up the pen again, and, hardly conscious
of what she was doing, she wrote, "My own dear husband." But this was
too much. With a little cry, and a sudden blush, she crumpled up the
paper, ran across the room, and dropped it into the fire. Next moment
she thought she heard the sound of voices. She went to the door,
opened it softly, and listened.
It was as she had thought, Sir Thomas and Mr. Pomeroy were talking
together on the floor below. She could not make out what they were
talking about--she did not want to do that--all that she wanted was
just to hear the sound of Pomeroy's voice. How strangely it thrilled
her this morning to hear that voice again, which she could already
have singled out from ten thousand others, and to hear which was, for
her, to hear a sweeter music than could have been distilled from all
the other sounds in the universe!
The last time she had heard that voice was when it spoke to her. What
were the words? "If I could only tell you how much I love you!" It was
to her those words were spoken--to her, Eleanor Lloyd! But surely it
was not yesterday, but long, long years ago that she had heard them!
She felt already as if she had loved him all her life.
And then his lips had pressed hers, once--twice--thrice! That, indeed,
was something fresh--the revelation of a new life! And then his arms
had twined round her--strong, comforting--and had pressed her to his
bosom as if she were a little child. And in that one timid glance
which she had shot up into his eyes, had she not seen there depths of
tenderness and devotion that were to be hers--hers alone--through all
the days of her life yet to come? What a happy, happy girl she was
this morning!
She was quite startled to hear the clock strike eleven. How quickly
the morning had flown! Lady Dudgeon came up to see how she was, but
with her came Eleanor's particular friend, Miss Lorrimore, who
announced, in the impetuous way usual with her, that she had come to
fetch Eleanor away for a couple of days. Eleanor was by no means loth
to go. It was as if a door of escape had suddenly opened for her. In
half an hour she was ready, Lady Dudgeon's mild opposition being
overruled by the two girls without compunction.
Miss Lorrimore's ponies had been waiting all this time. As Eleanor was
being driven through the avenue, her quick eyes saw Sir Thomas and Mr.
Pomeroy walking together in one of the side paths a little distance
away.
"I should like to stop and speak to Sir Thomas," said Miss Lorrimore.
"No, no; don't stop!" said Eleanor; "but drive on faster, if you love
me."
The gentlemen raised their hats, Eleanor fluttered her handkerchief
for a moment, and that was the last that she and Gerald saw of each
other for some time to come.
In the first place, Eleanor's visit to Miss Lorrimore, instead of
being for two days only, extended over five. In the second place, when
she did get back to Stammars, she found that Gerald was away in London
on business for Sir Thomas. This was a little disappointment to her,
for by this time she was growing impatient to see him again. She did
not like to ask how soon he was expected back, and no one volunteered
to tell her.
How bitterly she blamed herself now for running away from him! What a
strange, flighty girl he must take her to be! Perhaps, as she had so
deliberately run away from him, he would not think her worthy of
further notice, and would regard all that had happened between them as
nothing more than a foolish dream. This thought was almost unbearable,
and now was Eleanor as wretched as she had been happy before. But to
be frequently wretched and miserable is part of the penalty incurred
by all who are so weak-minded as to fall in love. Such people are not
to be pitied.
Gerald, on his side, being smitten with the same disorder, was subject
to the same exaltations and depressions, had his hours of fever and
his hours of chill. At one time he felt sure that Eleanor loved him a
little in return. Had he not seen, or fancied that he saw, a world of
love and trust in her eyes during those few brief seconds when she had
let him press her to his heart? At another time he felt sure that his
roughness and impetuosity had frightened her: that she was staying
away from Stammars on purpose to avoid him; that he had offended her
past recovery. It was almost a relief to be sent up to London on
business by Sir Thomas, who, being about this time confined to his
room with a severe cold, was obliged to make use of Gerald in various
ways. Gerald hoped that by the time he got back from town Eleanor
would have returned to Stammars, in which case he had quite made up
his mind that he would lose no time in deciding his fate once for all.
In his more hopeful moments, it was very pleasant to him to think that
Eleanor had learned, or was learning, to love him for himself alone.
As a poor man he had wooed her, and as a poor man he should win her.
He often speculated as to what would be the effect upon her of the
news which he must of necessity tell her before he could make her his
wife. In the first place, he could not marry her under a false name.
He must necessarily tell her that her name was not Eleanor Lloyd, but
Eleanor Murray. Then would follow, as a matter of course, her father's
story, which would, in its turn, elicit the fact that, as Jacob Lloyd
had died without a will, Eleanor had no right to a single sixpence of
the property he had left behind him. Next would have to come the
telling of everything to Ambrose Murray. Last but not least, would
come the revelation to Eleanor that the man she was going to marry was
not John Pomeroy, but Gerald Warburton. One fact he would, if it were
possible to do so, keep from her till after their marriage--he would
not let her know that he was the heir to Jacob Lloyd's property--to
the wealth which she had all along believed to be hers. It was his
fancy that she should marry him in the belief that he was a poor man.
All the greater would be her after-surprise.
It so fell out that a couple of days after Eleanor's return from her
visit to Miss Lorrimore, and while Gerald was still absent from
Stammars, Mr. Pod Piper, whom it is hoped the reader has not quite
forgotten, was sent there with certain papers that required Sir
Thomas's signature. Having taken the papers into the library, Pod was
told to go and amuse himself for half an hour, by which time the
documents would be ready for him to take back to Mr. Kelvin.
Pod was one of those people who never find much difficulty in amusing
themselves. His first proceeding was to make his way to the kitchen
and ask whether they had got any cold sirloin and strong ale with
which to refresh a weary wayfarer. Pod was not unknown at Stammars,
and his needs were duly attended to. After that he strolled into the
garden, and ensconcing himself behind a large laurel, where he could
not be seen from any of the windows, he proceeded to light and smoke
the remaining half of a cigar which he happened to have by him. Cigars
being a luxury that he could not often indulge in, Pod generally
contrived to make one last him for two occasions.
When the cigar was smoked down to the last half-inch, Pod thought that
he would take a turn round the conservatory, and as he felt sure that
the crusty-looking old gardener had never seen him before, it struck
him that there would be no harm in trying to impress the old fellow
with the belief that he was being honoured by the presence of some
guest of distinction--"some young swell of the upper ten," as Pod put
it to himself. Accordingly, before opening the glass door of the
conservatory, Mr. Piper produced from his pocket a pair of rather
dingy lavender kid gloves, one of which he put on, leaving the other
to be carried in an easy, dégagé style, such as would seem natural to
a young fellow whose uncle was a marquis at the very least. The fact,
however, was, that the gloves were odd ones, and as they were both
intended for the right hand, Pod could not conveniently wear more than
one of them at a time.
Pod's next proceeding was to give his hat a careful polish with the
sleeve of his coat, and then to cock it a little more on one side of
his head than he usually wore it. Then one end of his white
handkerchief was allowed to hang negligently out of his pocket. Then,
from some mysterious receptacle Pod produced an eye-glass. Many weary
hours had he spent in his attempts to master the nice art of wearing
an eye-glass easily and without conscious effort. But as yet his
labours could hardly be said to be crowned with success, seeing that
the glass would persist in dropping from his eye at awkward moments,
when, by all the laws that regulate such matters, it ought to have
been most firmly fixed in its orbit.
As soon as Pod's little arrangements were completed, he opened the
door, and marched boldly into the conservatory. The old gardener
glared sulkily at him, as gardeners have a habit of doing when any one
invades what they look upon as their private domains. But Pod, caring
nothing for sulky looks, swaggered up and down the flowery aisles,
making believe, glass in eye, to read the different Latin labels, as
though he thoroughly understood them. Presently, he caught sight of a
little group of people crossing one of the garden-paths outside.
Looking more closely, he saw that one of them was Olive Deane; the
others, judging from their appearance, were her two pupils and some
friends of theirs.
The sight of Miss Deane seemed to surprise Mr. Piper into temporary
forgetfulness both of his eye-glass and the Latin labels. He sat down
in a brown study, and was still sitting, deep in thought, when,
hearing one of the doors clash, he looked up and saw Miss Lloyd coming
slowly towards him. "Why, here she is--her very self! And isn't she a
beauty!" he muttered. "No time like the present. I'll tell her now."
And with that his eye-glass and his lavender gloves were next moment
smuggled safely out of sight.
Although Pod had at once recognized Eleanor, it is doubtful whether
she would have recollected him had he not spoken to her.
"Beg pardon, but are you not Miss Lloyd?" he said, as she reached the
spot where he was standing.
"Yes, I am Miss Lloyd," she said, with a smile, for Pod, much to his
own shame and disgust, was blushing violently. "Have you anything to
say to me?"
"Yes, miss, something that I should have told you long ago if you had
not been away in London. You don't recollect me, but I shall never
forget you. My name is Podley Piper, and I'm in Mr. Kelvin's office at
Pembridge."
Had Pod been an articled clerk, instead of being the office youth he
was, he could not have mentioned this fact with an air of greater
dignity.
"It was you, miss, who were so kind to my mother last spring, when she
was ill. You sent her wine, and jelly, and coals, and you weren't
above going and seeing her yourself. She would never have come round
as soon as she did if it had not been for your kindness--and I thank
you for it with all my heart!"
"It is very little that you have to thank me for," replied Eleanor. "I
hope your mother has had no return of her old complaint?"
"She is well and hearty, thank you, miss, and she often says that if
all rich people were like you, the world would be a pleasanter place
to live in than it is."
"I am glad to have seen you, and to have news of your mother," said
Eleanor. "But I think you said you had something to tell me."
"Yes, miss, I have. Do you know my governor, Mr. Kelvin?"
"I have known Mr. Kelvin for several years. But why do you ask?"
"Then perhaps you know a friend of Mr. Kelvin--Mr. Pomeroy?"
"I certainly am acquainted with a gentleman of that name. But I did
not know that Mr. Pomeroy was a friend of Mr. Kelvin."
"Oh, yes, but he is. It was through Mr. Kelvin that he was made
secretary to Sir Thomas."
"Indeed!" said Eleanor, coldly. "But that is hardly the news you have
to tell me?" Despite herself, she began to tremble a little. What was
this strange-looking boy about to tell her?
"I'm coming to the news presently," said Pod. "May I ask whether Miss
Olive Deane is still at Stammars?"
"Miss Deane is still here."
"Of course you know that she is Mr. Kelvin's cousin?"
"I believe I have been told so."
"Well, Miss Lloyd, one day I happened to overhear a conversation in
Mr. Kelvin's office between Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy, in which your
name was rather frequently mentioned."
"My name mentioned in a conversation between Miss Deane and Mr.
Pomeroy! What could they have to say about me?"
She was trembling more than ever now, and to hide it was obliged to
sit down on the chair recently vacated by Pod.
"You know, miss," said Pod, with an air of self-justification, "I am
not in the habit of listening to conversations that it is not intended
I should hear, and it was only the mention of your name, and a certain
remark that was made about you, that made me do so in this case."
"But they could have nothing to say about me--nothing, that is, of any
consequence either to you or me."
"Well, I can only say this, that neither Miss Deane nor Mr. Pomeroy
mean any good to you, and I want to put you on your guard against
them."
Eleanor could not speak for a moment or two. What terrible abyss was
this which seemed opening at her feet?
"But what do you mean by putting me on my guard against Miss Deane and
Mr. Pomeroy?"
"What I say is this: beware of both of them. Both of them are snakes
in the grass."
"You are a very strange young man, and cannot surely know what you are
saying," urged poor Eleanor. "I am quite sure that there must be a
great mistake somewhere."
"No mistake whatever, miss. If I leave my situation to-morrow, I'll
tell you. Mr. Pomeroy had been away from England for some time, and
when he first came to my master, about four months ago, he hadn't a
penny in the world."
"Possibly not," said Eleanor, coldly. "But poverty is no disgrace."
"He came to Mr. Kelvin, who had known him years before, and Kelvin
lent him fifty pounds."
"Friends should always help each other. But how came you to know all
this?"
"Through the conversation that I overheard between Miss Deane and Mr.
Pomeroy.
"Really," said Eleanor, as she rose, "I fail to see in what way these
details concern me. I must wish you good morning, Mr. Piper, and----"
"One moment, if you please," said Pod, earnestly. "You don't know why
Mr. Pomeroy was male secretary to Sir Thomas, do you?"
"That is a point about which I have never troubled myself to think: it
does not concern me."
"He was sent to Stammars that he might have a chance of marrying an
heiress."
"Ah!"
"And that heiress was to be you, miss."
"Me!" Eleanor sank down in the chair again.
"Miss Deane said you were worth twenty thousand pounds, and as Mr.
Pomeroy was so poor, why shouldn't he pretend to fall in love with you
and marry you?"
There was a dead pause. The plashing of a tiny fountain hidden
somewhere among the foliage was the only sound that broke the silence:
it was a sound that will dwell in Eleanor's memory as long as she
lives.
"Are you quite sure that you did not dream all this?" she said,
speaking very faintly.
"Every word I tell you is as true as gospel. I took down the
conversation in shorthand, and I've got my notes at home now. The
grand point was this: Mr. Pomeroy was to have the place of secretary
to Sir Thomas, so that he might be near you and have an opportunity of
making love to you. You are not offended with me, miss?"
"Offended! oh, no; but I am sure you have made some dreadful mistake."
"I thought it only right to put you on your guard against those
two--Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy. And there's my governor, too, he's as
thick in the plot as the others. It was he who found the other one the
money to buy clothes with to come here, so that he might look like a
gentleman. It's your money, miss, that's the temptation," concluded
Pod, philosophically. "Rich people never know who are their real
friends."
Eleanor did not answer. She no longer seemed to see him, or even to be
aware of his presence. There was a dumb, despairing, far-away look on
her white face that filled him with awe. He felt that he dare
not say another word. Leaving her there, sitting on the chair, one
hand tightly interlocked in the other, staring into vacancy with
wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing, he stole away on tip-toe,
and presently, with a great sense of relief, found himself in the
fresh air outside.