CHAPTER XI.
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.