GERALD'S CONFESSION.
Gerald was away from Stammars for several days, and it was during his
absence that Mr. Pod Piper's interview with Eleanor took place.
Gerald, metaphorically speaking, flew back on the wings of love. It
seemed months ago since he spoke those few memorable words to Eleanor,
and he was burning to see her again: burning to speak of the love that
filled his heart, firm in his determination, when once he should see
her again, not to leave her till he had won from her a promise to
become his wife.
He got back to Stammers on a certain day in time for luncheon, and
found Sir Thomas somewhat better in health. Lady Dudgeon and Miss
Lloyd were out visiting, and were not expected home much before
dinner-time. Gerald was in a restless and anxious mood, and could not
settle down to anything. To wait quietly indoors was intolerable. For
more than an hour he wandered aimlessly up and down the grounds, but
was at last driven by a shower to take shelter in the conservatory.
There he found Sanderson, the old gardener, plodding away as usual. He
was rather a favourite with the old fellow, simply because he never
took the liberty of plucking a flower without first asking Sanderson's
permission to do so.
"Eh, sir! but I heard some queer news about you t'other day," he said,
as he hobbled up to Gerald.
"News about me, Sanderson! I should very much like to know what it
was."
"I'm no so certain that I ought to tell ye. And yet, seeing that
there's a leddy in the case, it's perhaps only right that you should
know."
"A lady in the case! You must tell me now, or I shall die of
curiosity."
"I suppose I must tell ye, or else you'll no be satisfied," he said.
"But let us sit down while we talk. Sitting's as cheap as standing,
and I'm no so young as I have been, Mr. Pummery. It was that bit imp
of a lawyer laddie," resumed Sanderson, as soon as he and Gerald were
comfortably seated, "young Brazen-face, I call him, from Mr. Kelvin's.
He was here t'other day, here in this very spot, and Miss Lloyd
happened to come in quite accidental at the time. I'd been hard at
work all the morning, and was just resting a bit behind the bushes,
when all at once I heard young Brazen-face mention your name, and that
made me listen to hear more."
"And what had the young vagabond to say about me, Sanderson?"
"Why, he said that you were as poor as a church mouse, and that his
master lent you fifty pounds to buy your clothes with."
"There's nothing very bad in that."
"But he said the reason why you came to Stammers was that you might
fall in love with Miss Lloyd and marry her, because she was worth
twenty thousand pounds."
"The young scoundrel! And he told that to Miss Lloyd?"
"That's just what he did! And he said that Miss Deane knew all about
it, and that it was all a planned thing between you and her."
Gerald was dumbfounded. He could not find a word to say for a little
while. What must Eleanor think of him! It would not be a very
difficult matter to set himself right with her if he chose to do so,
but a climax was being forced upon him which he would gladly have
delayed for a little while longer.
"But what was Miss Lloyd's answer to all this?" he said at last.
"She didn't seem to say much; but she may have thought all the more,"
answered Sanderson.
"It was enough to make her think. I am really very much obliged to you
for telling me."
"I dare say you wouldn't care to have it talked about, Mr. Pummery?"
"Well, no, Sanderson, I think not. Even if this foolish accusation
were true, it would be as well, for Miss Lloyd's sake, not to let it
go any further. There's a sovereign for you to buy snuff with. A still
tongue, you know, is a sign of a wise head."
"How did that young scamp get to know all that he told Eleanor?" was
Gerald's first thought as he walked slowly back into the house. But
that was a question which it was impossible for him to answer. How
different was the spirit with which he entered the house from that
which had possessed him when he left it but one short hour before! The
summer sunshine of his love had suddenly been clouded over: the
landscape had darkened: a storm was at hand.
How fortunate it was, he said to himself, that he had not met Eleanor
before encountering Sanderson! He did not want to see her now; it was
requisite that he should decide upon some particular line of action
before meeting her again. He sat down in his easy-chair and shut his
eyes, and bent himself to the task of thinking--no very easy task just
now, so strangely was he fluttered by the news which had been told
him. Two or three different courses were open to him: which one of
them should he choose?
He sat without moving till the dinner-bell rang; then, all at once, he
made up his mind as to the line of action he would adopt. Having
excused himself on the plea of fatigue from going downstairs, he
lighted his lamp and seated himself at his writing-table. Then he took
pen and paper, and wrote as under:--
"Sir,--
"From certain private information which has reached me, I have reason
to believe that a great proportion, if not the whole, of the property
which my uncle, the late Mr. Jacob Lloyd, of Bridgeley Wells, died
possessed of, should devolve on me as being his legal representative.
As I am given to understand that you had the management of my late
uncle's affairs, will you kindly inform me, at your earliest
convenience, whether it is within your knowledge that the facts of the
case are as stated by me, and if so, what steps it will be requisite
for me to take in order to prove the validity of my claim?
"I am, sir, your obedient servant,
"Gerald Warburton."
This letter, addressed to Matthew Kelvin, was sent under cover by
Gerald to a friend in London, from whose house it was professedly
written, with a request that it might be posted.
Four days later, through the hands of his London friend, Gerald
received the following answer:--
"Sir,--
"In reply to your favour of the 25th inst., I regret to inform you
that the state of Mr. Kelvin's health at the present time is such as
to entirely preclude him from giving any attention to matters of
business. He hopes, however, to be sufficiently recovered in the
course of a few days to be able to reply fully to the questions
contained in your letter.
"I am, sir, respectfully yours,
"John Bowood."
Gerald's letter to Kelvin had been marked "Private." All letters not
so marked were opened by Mr. Bray, the chief clerk. The private
letters were picked out and sent upstairs. Kelvin, at this time, was
so ill that Olive was deputed to open these letters, and read them
aloud to him, and pencil down his remarks respecting such of them as
required answering. Thus it fell out that Gerald's letter reached her
among a number of others one morning. She always opened the letters
and read them over herself before submitting them to her cousin, by
which means she could often give him the pith of a letter without
troubling him with unnecessary details.
Gerald's letter startled her not a little. It was requisite that she
should have time to think it over, and to consider in what way it
might or might not interfere with her own special plans; so she
slipped it quietly into her pocket, and said nothing to Kelvin that
morning about it.
Locked up in her own room she read the letter over and over again.
After all, it was, perhaps, quite as well that this Mr. Warburton had
discovered something as to the real facts of the case. Her cousin
Matthew was so thin-skinned that, although he had agreed to the
temporary concealment of certain facts, he evidently shrank from
inflicting on Eleanor Lloyd the blow which ought to follow such
concealment as a logical sequence. But should this Mr. Warburton come
forward, the blow struck would be just the same, but her cousin would
be spared its infliction. Eleanor Lloyd would still be deprived of
name, wealth, and position, while a final sting should reach her from
the hands of Olive herself, in the care she would take that, if not in
one way then in another, Miss Lloyd should be duly enlightened as to
the character and antecedents of the man to whom she had given her
heart and promised her hand. Still it might be as well to temporise a
little, to delay the climax for a week or two, if it were only that
the bond of love which bound Miss Lloyd to Pomeroy might grow stronger
with the lapse of time; for the more she learnt to love Pomeroy, the
deeper would be the wound that a knowledge of his treachery could not
fail to inflict.
When Olive had once adopted this line of argument, it was easy for her
to persuade herself that the wisest thing she could do would be to
keep her own counsel for a little while as to Mr. Warburton's letter.
In her cousin's present state of health such a communication would
only serve to worry him, and could answer no practical end. Meanwhile,
she would take upon herself to have the letter replied to, but in such
a way that it would be impossible for her cousin to be offended with
her when the time should come for him to be told all that she had
done. Not being a person who was in the habit of acting on rash
impulses, she kept the letter over-night, with the view of
ascertaining whether the resolve which she had come to to-day would
bear next morning's cold confirmation. Next morning changed nothing;
and as soon as breakfast was over she went downstairs to her cousin's
private office, and sent for Mr. Bowood, one of the clerks, and
dictated to him that letter which we have already seen in the hands of
Gerald. All that Olive wanted just now was a little delay, and this
she succeeded in securing.
But what was Gerald to do next? After what that meddlesome imp of a
Pod Piper had told Eleanor, it was quite evident to him that all
prospect of her listening favourably to his suit was at an end, unless
he could offer a frank and full explanation of the facts. He had
relied upon his letter to Kelvin bringing matters to a crisis without
any further impulse on his part, but that hope was now at an end,
unless he could afford to wait for Kelvin's recovery at some
indefinite future time. But he could not afford to wait. He had shut
himself up in his own rooms, on the plea of indisposition, while
awaiting the lawyer's answer, in order that he might run no risk of
meeting Miss Lloyd till he knew what that answer was. But this could
not go on any longer. A meeting with Eleanor was inevitable, but on
what terms could they meet, unless he were prepared with some sort of
an explanation beforehand?
His most straightforward course would certainly have been to explain
frankly to Eleanor who and what he was, and to tell her all his
reasons for seeking to win her affections under a fictitious name. But
he still shrank, with a repugnance which he seemed quite unable to
overcome, from being the first to tell her that strange story which
she must one day be told, but which, it seemed to him, his lips ought
to be the last in the world to reveal. That story would deprive her of
name, wealth, position--of everything, in fact, that her life had
taught her to hold most dear. Not even to set himself right in her
eyes, not even to free himself in her thoughts from a vile imputation,
could he consent that from his hands the blow should come. That the
blow must fall some day he knew quite well, but Kelvin was the man
from whom it ought to emanate; and now, after what had happened, no
matter how soon it came.
To this conclusion had he come before writing to Kelvin, but the
lawyer's answer left him exactly where he was before. Something he
must do himself, or else shun Eleanor altogether: but what must that
something be?
Was there no middle course open to him? he asked himself; was no
scheme of compromise possible by means of which, while setting himself
right with Eleanor, he might be spared the necessity of becoming the
mouthpiece of a revelation which, if told by him, might perchance
shatter his dearest hopes for ever?
After a restless and miserable night, which seemed as if it would
never come to an end, he fell into an hour's sound sleep, and when he
woke he seemed to see a glimpse of daylight through the midst of his
perplexities. Again he took pen in hand, and here is what he wrote on
that occasion:--
"Mr. Pomeroy presents his compliments to Miss Lloyd, and having
something of a special nature which he is desirous of communicating to
her, he would esteem it a great favour if Miss Lloyd would allow him
the privilege of a few minutes' private conversation at any time and
at any place that may be most convenient to her."
An hour later, he received the following line in answer:--
"Miss Lloyd will be in the library at three o'clock this afternoon."
Poor Eleanor! What a miserable time was that which she had passed
since that afternoon when Pod Piper spoke to her in the conservatory!
An hour before, she would have staked her existence on Pomeroy's truth
and sincerity; and now, proof had been given her that he was nothing
better than a common adventurer, who had sought to win her because she
was rich! Truth and sincerity seemed to have vanished from the world.
Nowhere could she feel sure that she had a friend who cared for her
for herself alone, who would be the same to her to-morrow as to-day,
if, by the touch of some wizard's wand, her money were suddenly turned
to dross. How she wished that her father had left his riches
elsewhere! How she wished that necessity had driven her to earn her
living by her fingers or her brain! Then, if friendship or love had
chanced to come to her, she would have known that they were genuine,
because she would have had nothing but their like to give in return.
The poorest shop-girl, who walked the streets on her sweetheart's arm,
was richer than she in all that makes life sweet and beautiful.
Sometimes Eleanor recalled certain words of warning which Lady Dudgeon
had on one occasion addressed to her. "Beware lest you fall into the
hands of some swindling adventurer," her ladyship had said, "of some
romantic rogue, with a handsome face and a wheedling tongue, who,
while persuading you that he loves you for yourself alone, cares, in
reality, for nothing but the money you will bring him."
Had not her ladyship's warning borne fruit already?
But ten minutes later she would reproach herself for thinking so
hardly of Pomeroy. No; notwithstanding all that she had heard, she
would not believe that he was an adventurer. There was a mistake
somewhere, she felt sure.
How much of the unhappiness of life is due to misunderstandings and
mistakes which a few frank words of explanation would often serve to
put right!
But supposing Mr. Pomeroy offered her no explanation? Supposing he
persisted in his suit, and went on making love to her on the
assumption that after what had passed between them he would not be
repulsed? Then, indeed, painful as such a course might be, she would
feel compelled to tell him all that young Piper had told her, leaving
him to deny it or explain it away as he might best be able.
There were some other words of Lady Dudgeon's which she could not
quite forget, and which seemed to have a more apposite force at the
present moment than when they were uttered. "If you become the wife of
Captain Dayrell, you will have the consolation of knowing that you
have not been sought for your money alone. Dayrell is rich enough to
marry a woman without a penny, if he chose to do so." She did not like
Captain Dayrell, and she would never become his wife, but for all that
Lady Dudgeon's words would keep ringing in her ears.
When she heard Sir Thomas mention one day at dinner that Mr. Pomeroy
was back again at Stammars, she felt strangely moved. However great
his offences might be, his image still dwelt in her heart, and there
was something delicious in the thought that he was once again under
the same roof with her. She longed and yet dreaded to see him; but as
day passed after day without giving him to her aching eyes, her
longing deepened into an intense anxiety. She heard from those around
her that he was not very well, and that beyond seeing Sir Thomas, on
business matters, for an hour every morning, he kept to his own rooms.
But if he were well enough to see Sir Thomas, he was surely well
enough to see her--to see the woman whose lips he had kissed, and into
whose ears he had whispered words that could never be forgotten! But
perhaps he held himself aloof on purpose that they might not meet.
Perhaps he was desirous of shunning her--wishful that she should
understand that what had passed between them had better be forgotten,
and that in time to come they must be as strangers, or, at the most,
as mere acquaintances, to each other. If he could forget, she could do
the same: her pride was quite a match for his. It was a time of bitter
perplexity and trouble.
When Eleanor walked into the library to meet Pomeroy, she had his note
hidden in the bosom of her dress. She looked very cold and very proud.
Her coldness and her pride notwithstanding, she had kissed his letter
and cried over it; but of that Gerald was to know nothing. He bowed
gravely to her as she entered the room, but he did not speak, and that
of itself was enough to send a chill to her heart. Then he placed a
chair for her, and she sat down, but during the interview that
followed, Gerald stood with his elbow resting on the chimney-piece.
"Miss Lloyd," he began, when Eleanor was seated, "I have taken the
liberty of asking you to meet me privately, being desirous of saying
something to you which I could not well communicate by letter, and
which, perhaps, I ought to have told you long before now." His tone
was very measured and grave. Was it possible, Eleanor asked herself,
that she could be listening to the same man who had pressed her to his
heart in a rapture of love only two short weeks ago?
"You asked me to meet you, Mr. Pomeroy," she said, "and I am here to
listen to whatever you may have to say to me."
Evidently he hardly knew how to begin what he wanted to say.
"I am here to-day, Miss Lloyd," he said at last, "to make a very
painful confession, and I must ask your forgiveness if, in the course
of it, I am compelled to speak more plainly than under other
circumstances I should venture to do. Some three months ago I entered
the service of Sir Thomas Dudgeon as his secretary. At that time I was
doing nothing, or next to nothing: I was a poor man; the situation was
thrown in my way, and I accepted it. But I accepted it, Miss Lloyd,
not for the sake of the salary or emoluments attached to the position,
but simply in order that by its means I might be brought near to you,
and have an opportunity of making your acquaintance. It had been
hinted to me that the only mode by which I could recoup my fortunes
was by marrying an heiress. I was told that you were an heiress, and
that there was just a faint possibility that I might succeed in
winning your hand."
"Your confession, sir, has at least the merit of frankness," said
Eleanor, with a quivering lip.
"Its frankness is the only merit it can lay claim to. I came to
Stammars, Miss Lloyd, and I made your acquaintance. From that moment I
was a changed man. Whatever mercenary motives, whatever ignoble ends,
may have held possession of me before, they all vanished, utterly and
for ever, in that first hour of our meeting. I felt and knew only that
I loved you. In that love--so different from anything I had ever felt
before--lay a subtle alchemy, that had the power of transfusing into
something finer and purer everything base that it touched. It has
refined and purified me: it has given to my hopes and inspirations a
different aim: it has taught me to look at life and its duties with
altogether different eyes."
He paused for a moment. Eleanor sat without speaking. What, indeed,
could she say? But she had never loved him better than at that moment.
"A fortnight ago," resumed Gerald, "carried away by the impulse of the
moment, and my own long-suppressed feelings, I said certain words to
you which I ought not to have said--at least, not till after I had
told you what I am telling you to-day, and not till I knew that I was
forgiven. I am here to-day, Miss Lloyd, to crave your pardon for
having given utterance to those words, and to ask you to look upon
them as if they had never been said."
"Why need he do that?" whispered Eleanor in her heart.
"After the confession which I have just made as to the motives which
first led me to become an inmate of this house, I dare hardly hope
ever to attain again to that position in your regards which I
flattered myself--wrongly enough, perhaps--was mine but a little while
ago. How greatly I regret having forfeited that position I should fail
to tell you in any words. But I may, perhaps, hope that my candour
will meet with sufficient recognition at your hands to induce you to
overlook all that has gone before, and to treat me in time to come,
not as an utter stranger, but as one who----"
He paused, at a loss for words.
"No, not as an utter stranger, Mr. Pomeroy," said Eleanor, gently.
"Your confession, as you term it, has been nearly as painful to me as
it must have been to you. I almost forget what the words were to which
you have made allusion: something foolish, I do not doubt. In any
case, we will both try to forget that they were ever uttered.
Good-bye."
She held out her hand as she spoke. Gerald took it, and pressed it
respectfully to his lips. Then her eyes met his, while a faint smile,
that was more akin to tears than laughter, played round her mouth for
a moment: for a moment only--the next, he was gone.