With September the lovely weather suddenly broke up, and a few days later there was a great storm along the eastern seaboard. One morning news came to Heron Dyke that during the night a brig of some three hundred tons burden, the _Seamew_, bound from Dantzic to London, had struck on the Creffel Bank, and lay there a helpless wreck. Two of the crew had been washed overboard; the rest, including the master, were rescued by the Easterby lifeboat. The Creffel Bank was known as one of the most dangerous spots on that part of the coast, and many a gallant craft had gone to pieces on its shifting and treacherous shoals.
Miss Winter at once sent Hubert Stone into the village with instructions to aid the shipwrecked men in whatever way might seem best. All of them, except the captain, expressed a desire to be forwarded to London, and were accordingly packed off by rail, their fares being paid by Hubert. As the brig did not at once break up, when the storm abated several boats went out to her, and in the course of a couple of days succeeded in landing that portion of her cargo which remained unspoiled, and most of her loose fittings; but the little _Seamew_ herself was so deeply imbedded in the sand that it was impossible to get her off, and the next gale would doubtless break her up entirely.
One sunny afternoon, Ella took her sketchbook to the sands, and was dutifully accompanied by Mrs. Toynbee with a novel. But Ella was not long in discovering that she was in no mood for sketching, that she was rather in a mood which inclined to day-dreaming, and to vague golden visions of some far-off future. Could it be that the recent visit of Edward Conroy had anything to do with these idle fancies?
At length she shut up her book with a little gesture of impatience, and strolled slowly down to the farther shore. Mrs. Toynbee sighed and followed meekly. Her seat had been a comfortable one, and she was in the middle of an interesting chapter; but duty is duty, however unpleasant it may be.
The tide was beginning to ebb, and, as the two ladies paced the sands a little above high-water mark, they presently saw a boat propelled by a single rower making for the shore. The rower was Hubert Stone, and the boat belonged to him. He was fond of the water, and often went out for hours at a time, alone or accompanied by some friend. Ella stood and watched the boat coming in. It seemed to be making for the spot where she stood. Hubert's strong and regular strokes propelled it swiftly through the water, and in a little while it shot gently up the sands. Putting down his oars, the young man stood up and raised his straw hat to Miss Winter. How handsome he looked as he stood there in the afternoon sunshine, with his coat thrown carelessly across his arm!
"Have you been far?" asked Ella, when he stepped ashore.
"Only as far as New Nullington and back," answered Hubert.
"It must be very pleasant on the water to-day."
"Very pleasant indeed. There is quite a refreshing breeze when you get a little way out. What do you say, Miss Ella, to letting me pull you and Mrs. Toynbee as far as the _Seamew_ and back?"
Miss Winter looked at Mrs. Toynbee.
"Oh, that would be very charming, I think," said the latter lady: and they did not observe that she spoke half ironically.
"Who is on board the brig?" asked Ella.
"George Petherton is there now," said Hubert. "If the weather holds up fine, they hope to be able to save some more of the cargo; meanwhile George remains there in charge."
"Then let us go. We shall get back in time for dinner."
She knew George Petherton well. He was one of the oldest and steadiest boatmen round Easterby.
Without more ado, Ella stepped lightly into the boat and sat down. Hubert held out his hand to Mrs. Toynbee. But, at the last moment, that lady's heart failed her; in fact her bravery had been but put on. Involuntarily she drew back a step or two.
"There is not the slightest cause for alarm, ma'am," said Hubert.
But the boat was a very small one, and looked dreadfully unsafe, she thought. Then the wreck was more than two miles away, and what was it that Mr. Stone had just said about there being a pleasant breeze when you got away from shore? How could any breeze be pleasant at sea?
"I--I don't feel very well, and I think, my dear, I must ask you to excuse me," she said to Ella, with a little quaver of the voice.
"You are not afraid, are you?" asked Ella, with a smile. "The breeze when we get out will do you good."
Mrs. Toynbee shuddered.
"Really, my dear, I should feel pleased if you would excuse me," she said. "I am not at all myself this afternoon: and I am apt to be so very ill upon the water. Do excuse me--and I will wait for you here."
"Well, I should like to go," responded Ella. "I should like to see the wreck, and I shall not be long away. You can watch me skimming over the water."
"I will," assented Mrs. Toynbee, with an air of relief. "I wish you _bon voyage_, and a safe return."
Hubert waited for no more. He pushed the boat into deeper water, then got in and took up his oars. He wanted no Mrs. Toynbee in it, not he, and was glad matters had turned out so. That lady stood on the sands waving her handkerchief till they were quite a quarter of a mile away from shore, and then sat down to continue her novel.
But--it may as well be at once mentioned--the expedition took longer than Mrs. Toynbee had expected. She grew tired of waiting, felt rather chilly, for she had but a thin gauze shawl on, and she got up at length and went back to the Hall.
Hubert Stone rowed on with strong steady strokes, feeling like a man who cannot be sure whether he is dreaming or awake. Could it be true, he asked himself, that he and his sweet mistress were alone together--alone on the waste of waters where no living soul could come between them? Together, yes; but in reality as far as the poles asunder. Still, to be so near her, to have her as it were all to himself, though only for one short hour, was both a pleasure and a pain unspeakable. If they could but have gone on thus for ever, sailing away into infinity, and never touching land again, unless it were some desert island untrodden by any footsteps save their own! Wild, foolish longings! In an hour their little voyage would be at an end, and never again, in all human probability, would Ella and he be in a boat together; never alone, as they were to-day. He needed no prophet to tell him that. Never again!
By-and-by Ella roused herself from her reverie: for she too had fallen into one. They were nearing the wreck. It lay low on its sandy bed, slightly heeled over to starboard. There was little more of it left than the bare hull. Masts and bowsprit had been unshipped and carried away.
"How quiet and deserted it looks!" she exclaimed. "I don't see George Petherton."
"We shall have a splendid sunset," remarked Hubert, as he rested for a moment on his oars, and taking no notice of her words. "See there, Miss Winter!"
"Yes, many of those cloud-effects are very lovely!"
A few more minutes brought them close to the wreck. Ella was looking at it steadfastly.
"I do not see George Petherton," she again remarked.
"He is probably below deck, smoking his pipe, or trying to fish up some more of the cargo. George is not the sort of man to care for sunset-effects." Hubert said this with a short, hard laugh, which Ella, preoccupied, took little notice of. It was well perhaps that she did not see the expression of his face. It had changed strangely during the last few minutes. His mouth was hard-set, and in his eyes there sat a look which might have been set down as compounded of despair, burning passion, and desperate resolve.
Hubert shipped his oars, and made a trumpet of his hands to sing out. "Hillo there! Petherton--Petherton, I say, where are you?" But there came no answer; there was no sign of life whatever on board the wreck.
"Can he have gone ashore?" exclaimed Ella, quickly.
"Not likely," returned Hubert. "He is shut in below, smoking his pipe, and cannot hear: perhaps has dropped asleep. I will go and arouse him. But let me help you on board first, Miss Winter.--Hark! yes, George is there, safe enough. I hear him."
He brought the boat up under the lee of the wreck, made her fast with a rope, sprang lightly on the _Seamew's_ deck, and turned to assist Miss Winter.
But Ella held back. "Go and tell him to come and help you to get me up," she said laughingly.
Hubert disappeared down the cabin stairs. He did not come back immediately. Left alone in the boat, Ella began to feel anxious, vaguely uneasy. Could she but have divined his treachery! He knew perfectly well that George Petherton was not on board, that he had gone ashore at mid-day.
Hubert made his way aft into a little room, not much bigger than a rabbit-hutch, but which was in reality the captain's cabin. Here he found a keg of hollands, still about one-third full; near it was a horn drinking-cup. Twice in quick succession he filled the cup with neat spirits and drank it off. He was very pale, and there lay still that same strange lurid light in his eyes.
After drinking the spirits, he stood rigid as a statue, his hands clenched, his eyes fixed on the ground. "His or mine--his or mine?" he muttered under his breath. "Not his--not his! Death before that."
Once again he filled the cup and drank its contents. Then he pressed his hand to his heart for a moment, as though to still some wild commotion there; and then, as if afraid to hesitate any longer, he made his way quickly back on deck.
Ella was watching anxiously for him. The moment she saw his white set face, she became filled with alarm. "What is amiss?" she cried, her fears flying to the boatman. "Is Petherton ill? Has anything happened to him?"
"Yes," shortly replied Hubert; "not much. You had better come on board, Miss Winter."
Ella did not hesitate another moment. She had known George Petherton all her life, and liked him greatly. A thought came over her that the man might have fallen and hurt himself amidst the damaged cordage and rigging.
"Put one foot there and the other here, and give me your hand," said Hubert. Miss Winter, active and fearless, did as she was bidden. Next moment she was standing on the deck.
"You will find him aft in the captain's cabin, if you go down," said Hubert.
Thinking only of the poor old boatman, Ella went slowly down the little staircase, and was presently lost to view. When Hubert could no longer see her, he gave a great gasp, and, sinking on one knee, he laid his head against the bulwarks of the brig. "What have I done? What have I done?" he cried. "It is too late now to turn back. Too late!"
He rose slowly when he heard the young lady's returning footsteps. She came up looking about her.
"I can't find George Petherton," she said. "He is not below. I thought you told me----"
"I told you a lie, Miss Winter. Petherton went ashore hours ago."
Ella gazed at him in amazement.
"Then why did you say he was on board? What does all this mean?"
"Oh, are you blind?--cannot you guess?" he burst forth, unfolding his arms and drawing a step nearer to her.
Ella, on her part, stepped back: she was becoming frightened at the matter altogether, and at the fierce, dreadful look in his eyes.
"I brought you here, knowing we should be alone and beyond the reach of men, to tell you a secret, Miss Winter. I brought you here because I love you," he added, flinging himself on his knees before her; "because I cannot live another day without telling you! I have you to myself here, and none can interfere."
"Get up instantly," she indignantly cried, with all the bravery she could command. "Never let me hear another word of this folly. Help me into the boat again: I will return to the shore." Her heart was beating very fast and all the colour had left her lips, but there was a fine fire of anger in her eyes.
"Folly! yes, that is the word for it," answered Hubert, as he rose to his feet. "Not until you have listened to the whole tale of folly do you leave this spot."
"You would not dare to detain me?" said Ella, proudly.
"Indeed, but I would: I do. Being in the mood, I would dare much more than that," boasted Hubert. The spirit he had taken was beginning to take effect upon him. "Oh, my sweet mistress!" he resumed, his manner changing to softness, "why do you scorn me thus? How was it possible for me daily to see you and not love you? Do you think I have willingly brought this misery on myself? You have blighted my life, but what of that?--it has been one long worship of you. I have loved you ever since the days when we used to gather blackberries in the lanes with your nurse, and dig for pretty shells in the sand."
He paused with emotion. Ella felt more scared with every word.
"Why did not Fate make me your equal instead of your servant? Surely the force of my love would have drawn yours in return. I have hands to work for you, I have a brain to plan for you, I have love that would never grow cold. I am not without manners or education; but, despite all these things, the world does not count me--a gentleman. I am but a son of the soil, and I must not dare to look up to any lady with the eyes of love."
His tone, full of anguish--almost of despair, was respectful now. Despite Ella's indignation, she felt some compassion for him.
"You must forget all this," she said, with gentle gravity: "and I will try to forget that you have spoken as you have to-day. You have an honourable career before you if you choose to follow it, and you may rely upon my doing all that is in my power to further your interests. But never must you address me in this strain again; recollect that. And now I shall be glad if you will row me ashore."
What a revelation his words had been to her! A thousand little tokens, never noticed before, flashed across her memory.
But Hubert made no movement towards the boat.
"Forget all this! never speak of it again!" he exclaimed with renewed bitterness. "What easy words to say! There is one thing I should like to remind you of, Miss Ella; it may lessen my seeming presumption. My mother was a lady born; but she left friends, station, everything, to follow my father's humble fortunes. Other gentlewomen there are, who have sacrificed all for love, and deemed the world well lost."
This persistence annoyed Ella while it frightened her. She had never seen the expression on his face that it wore this afternoon, and she shuddered while she looked. Surely this could not be the Hubert Stone she had known for so many years! It was the spirit of some demon which had got possession of him and was looking out of his eyes. She had seen that other kind of spirit below, and rightly deemed that he had been making free with it. It might not answer to be too severe with him.
"Will you not let me go? I am tired," she said, pleasantly. "You are not like yourself, Hubert. I hardly know you this afternoon."
"Faith, I hardly know myself," he answered, with a strange, jarring laugh. "It is all your fault: you have ruined me, body and soul."
Ella cast an imploring glance towards the distant shore. She was growing desperately frightened. Again his mood changed to tenderness.
"Oh, my sweet mistress, is there no hope for me?" he wailed. "Is there none, none? No man else could love you as I love; no heart could be as faithful as mine would be."
"Hubert Stone, enough of this," cried Ella, her fears merged in her indignation. "Once and for all, understand that you could never be anything to me in the way you speak of. If you have the slightest spark of honour, you will not persecute me further."
There was scorn in her voice and indignation in her eyes, but never had he seen her look more beautiful than at that moment.
"I wish the lightning of your eyes could strike me dead at your feet," he exclaimed. "It would be better both for you and me. I know it is useless to ask for that which it is not in your power to give. Your secret is known to me, Miss Winter, well hidden though it be. You love another, and you believe that he loves you in return."
She opened her lips to answer, but closed them again. A lovely colour flushed the alabaster of her cheeks.
Close to the bulwarks she had drawn now, and could get no farther away. He stepped nearer, and laid one finger lightly on her arm.
"I heard all that passed between you and him the other evening," he said, staring straight into her eyes.
"All that passed between _whom?_" gasped Ella.
"Between you and that man--that Mr. Conroy--your lover. I heard his low-voiced questions and all your soft replies. You gave no scorn or contempt to him: yet am I not as good as he, and do I not love you a thousand times better?"
"Let me pass, sir, this moment! How dare you insult me thus!" she cried, brought to bay. "If I could but strike him to the ground!" was her unspoken thought.
"You shall go when I am ready to let you go, and not one minute before," answered Hubert. "You love this man: I know it from the way you speak to him, from the way you look at him. And he loves you--apparently. But--I beg you listen to me, Miss Winter. I have something I must say. That man is wise in his generation. He waited until your uncle was dead, and Heron Dyke yours, and then--not before, mark you--he comes with his low, honeyed words to steal away your heart. But now--are you listening?"
What could she do but listen?
"Dare to wed that man," he went on, "and, on the day you do so, the secret I have kept for your sake shall be a secret no longer. The world shall ring with it."
"A secret for my sake!" she exclaimed in her surprise.
"It would be a grand thing for this adventurer, this journalist--this newspaper hack, to become the master of Heron Dyke, would it not? _He_ thinks so. But that he shall never be."
"Be silent, sir. You know not what you are saying."
"Unfortunately, I know too well. Should he marry you, he will not find you the heiress he expects. He will find too late that his wife has no more title to the estates of Heron Dyke than I have; that what she holds, she holds by _fraud_. By fraud alone."
"By fraud!" Anxious though she was to get away, Hubert's words startled her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this, Miss Winter. A dozen words from me, and Heron Dyke would know you as its mistress no more."
"Then speak those words," said Ella, bravely. "It is your bounden duty to do so. I have no wish to keep what belongs to another."
Her tone was clear and decided. She believed there was something in this: that he meant what he said.
"Why should I speak them--and injure you? No. Give up this man, who cares only for your money, and my lips shall be sealed for ever."
"Do your duty, that is all I ask. I have no other word to say to you."
"Will you promise to give up this man?"
"No."
"Beware! You are driving me to desperation."
"I cannot help that."
"You have not a better word to say to me?"
"Not one."
"So be it. You have driven me to do it. Remember that."
"What would you do?" she asked, a little faintly.
"You shall see."
He crossed to where the boat that had brought them was tied to the wreck. He unfastened the rope that held it, and let it drop into the water. Then he took up a broken spar and pushed the boat away. The tide was still on the ebb, and the boat floated slowly out to sea.
Ella sprang forward.
"You would not murder me!" she exclaimed.
"No, I will not murder you," he answered, quietly. "But since the Fates have willed that we shall not live together, we can at least die together."
Ella sank back faint and dizzy. Could it be that the only link between themselves and the shore was really broken? There was no other boat near, and two miles of water intervened between the wreck and the land. It was terrible to think of the doom to which this madman had possibly condemned her.
Madman! Was it not likely that he was one in reality? It flashed across Ella's mind that, long years before, she had heard that Hubert Stone's mother had died insane. Had he inherited the awful malady, and had this day's agitation brought it suddenly out? In terrible fear she glanced across at him.
He was standing on the opposite side of the deck, lighting a cigar. His hat was off, and the breeze ruffled his black, silky hair. Could anything but madness account for his actions this afternoon? Ella shuddered and hid her eyes, and tried to think. The pulses of life beat strongly within her. It was hard to realise that the end--and such an end--was so near.
Presently Hubert came a little nearer. He was puffing quietly at his cigar. All traces of his previous excitement had disappeared.
"The barometer has been going down all day," he observed, "and the wind is beginning to rise. It will blow a gale during the night, the wreck will break up, and when daylight comes, the _Seamew_ will have disappeared for ever."
Miss Winter made no answer.
"A few days hence," he resumed slowly, "two bodies will be washed ashore--those of a man and a woman; and the woman will be so closely locked in the arms of the man that people will not be able to separate them. They will be buried together, and she who would not be his bride in life shall be his bride for ever in the grave."
"That shall never be," said Ella to herself, with a shudder. But she spoke no word aloud.
"Meanwhile, Miss Winter, you have nothing to fear. We have still some hours before us."
By this time the boat looked a mere speck in the distance. Sunset splendours flooded the western sky. In mid heaven, borne swiftly away by some upper current, were ragged shreds and fragments of cloud, looking like crimson fleeces that had been roughly torn asunder; but in the north and north-east an ominous-looking bank of sullen sky was climbing out of the sea, and creeping slowly up towards the zenith. There was not much wind, but what there was blew in fitful puffs that went as suddenly as they came, hurrying away to whisper elsewhere of the coming storm. The tide had begun to turn, and was bringing with it a heavier swell. Now and then the timbers of the ship creaked and strained; it was as though the brave old brig knew that its end was near, and could not repress its groans. In another hour darkness would reign over land and sea.
Hubert went on smoking in silence, lighting a second cigar when the first one was finished, and--what could Ella say? Even if she were to appeal to him to save her life, and he listened to her appeal, it would be useless. The boat was gone beyond recovery, and with it their last chance of reaching the shore. A few short hours, and then would come the bitter end; one brief struggle, and that coil of joys, sorrows, and perplexities which we call Life would have snapped like a broken dream, and the unknown awful dawn of Eternity would be shining in her eyes.
She was sitting crouched up against the bulwarks, her face hidden in her hands. Never had the wheels of thought moved more swiftly, she had so many things to think of, and so little time to give to them! She thought of Mrs. Toynbee sitting placidly reading her novel in the drawing-room at Heron Dyke--for that she had gone home ere this, Ella did not doubt--looking at her watch occasionally, and wondering what had become of the runaway, but otherwise quietly enjoying herself.
Next her thoughts flew off to Edward Conroy. Where was he at that moment, and what was he doing? Oh! if he only knew the bitter strait she was in! Ella no longer attempted to disguise from herself the fact that she loved him. Would she ever see him again on earth? A blinding rush of tears filled her eyes, and for a little while she felt as if the bitterness of death were already upon her. But before long she grew calmer, silently praying that help and strength might be given her; and she did not pray in vain.
"Are you not cold, Miss Ella?" asked Hubert, by-and-by. "Is there nothing I can do for you?"
"I am not cold, and all my wish is to be left alone," she answered.
He turned away with a groan, and muttered something under his breath.
"I would give my heart's blood for you," he cried passionately. "But you shall never be the wife of that man. I have sworn it, and I will keep my oath. We will die together."
Striding off, he gave a look round at the weather, and went below. Probably in search of more hollands.
Ella rose to her feet as he disappeared. She felt cramped and chilled, and everything seemed to swim before her. She strained her eyes across the darkling waters, and, while she was looking, the lamps of Easterby lighthouse flashed suddenly out. The sight made her heart beat more quickly. With help so near, it was hard to realise that there was no help for her. The great bank of cloud was still creeping slowly up, and the wind was beginning to pipe more shrilly. What was that madman doing below? If he would but stay there, and not come on deck again!
But--while she was looking and listening--a strange, wild idea, born of despair, flashed across her mind as suddenly and clearly as the rays from the lighthouse lamps had flashed across her sight. For a moment she stood with her fingers pressed to her temples, asking herself whether she should do this thing or not. Yes! In it lay her only hope of rescue. The staircase which Hubert had gone down could be shut up in bad weather, by means of a hinged door, which at present stood wide open. It was the work of a moment for Ella to shut this door and shoot the bolt into the staple. Her enemy was a prisoner.
Broken boxes and other wreckage lumbered the deck. There was also a small tub containing a quantity of tar. Ella quickly made a pile of these boxes, and poured the tar over them. Then she tore a number of leaves out of her sketchbook and put them under the boxes. Hubert's fusee-box lay close by, where he had left it. After some little difficulty, she succeeded in setting light to the paper, the tar caught fire, and in a little while a bright sheet of flame was leaping toward the sky.
This was effected just as Hubert found out that he was imprisoned. He shook the door and flung himself against it with all his strength. To no purpose. He found a heavy piece of wood, and began battering the door with all his might. The blows filled Ella's soul with affright. Surely, surely, she said to herself, her signal would be seen from shore, and help would come--sent by God. But--would it come in time? would it come before that caged madman succeeded in breaking loose? She was partly crouching, partly kneeling, a little way off the fire.
Suddenly, the faint sound of what seemed a far-off shout fell upon her straining ears. Even while she asked herself whether it was only fancy, it grew more distinct. Help must be approaching. The revelation was too much for her. Hubert's blows grew fainter in her ears, and she fell on the deck bereft of sense and feeling.
It seemed to be a perilous situation: lying on the brig there, alone and insensible, without certainty of rescue. But help had come: and when Miss Winter opened her eyes to consciousness, the first sight she awoke to was the face of Edward Conroy, bent tenderly over her. Kneeling on one knee, he was chafing her hands gently; and at a little distance stood two of the Easterby boatmen.
"You are better now?" said Mr. Conroy. "Yes, I am better now," Ella replied mechanically. Her mind just yet only recognised one fact, that Conroy was by her side. He assisted her to rise. When she stood up and looked round, all the events of the afternoon flashed across her mind in a moment. What happy accident had brought Conroy, of all people in the world, to her rescue? But it was not a time to ask questions: that could be done afterwards.
"The sooner we get ashore the better," said Conroy. "Are you well enough to venture?"
"Quite well enough," answered Ella, with a rush of tears. "A little while ago I thought I should never set foot on shore again."
"But what became of the boat that brought you to the wreck?--and what has become of Mr. Stone?"
"The rope that held the boat became unfastened, and the tide carried it away," she slowly answered, after a long pause.
But Hubert Stone, she mentally asked herself--what could have become of him: was he below still? Conroy repeated the question. He had heard from Mrs. Toynbee that it was Stone who had rowed Ella to the wreck.
"He--he went into the cabin," said Ella, shrinking from speaking too openly. "He went down first of all to look for George Petherton, and found he was not on board. He was below when I fainted."
"We'll soon see after him. You can be getting into the boat again," he added to the men.
The cabin door had been broken open: by Stone, of course. Conroy only supposed it had been done in the wreck, and descended the stairs. Presently he returned.
"Stone is not below. He is certainly not on board. I have looked everywhere."
"But he must be on board," said Ella, who did not wish to leave him to his fate, although he had behaved so ill to her. "He had no means of getting away. The little boat was gone."
"Unless he swam on shore," suggested Conroy. "A good swimmer could do it."
One of the men looked up to speak.
"Hubert Stone is one of the best swimmers we have, sir. The young lady knows it. He must ha' swum after the boat."
"Look here," interposed the other man: "as we were nearing the brig here, I saw something moving through the water a goodish distance off; but whether it was a man, or what it was, I couldn't make out."
"It must have been Stone that you saw," said Mr. Conroy. "In any case, he is not here. He must have gone to get help for you," he added to Ella: "a brave fellow!--though he had the tide all in his favour."
That it was Stone the man had seen there could be little doubt of. Conroy helped Ella into the boat, and the men rowed away.
It was almost dusk now. The great black bank of cloud was still climbing slowly up from the sea, and had shut out half the sky. The wind had risen considerably during the last half-hour, and the tide was rolling in in huge sullen masses of blue-green water, with here and there a white-topped wave.
"We shall have plenty of dirty weather before morning," remarked one boatman to the other.
Ella and Conroy sat in the stern of the boat. He had wrapped his ulster round her to protect her from the wind. Also, he had taken possession of one of her hands, and she made no attempt to withdraw it. When he had her heart already, why should she refuse him possession of her hand?
Ella shut her eyes and tried to realise her happiness. Oh, the difference that one short half-hour had made! She could hardly believe this, the sitting there, to be more than a blissful dream.
"What strange chance was it that brought you here to-day?" she said to him at last. "Did you drop down from the sky? How else did you come?"
"I came by a very slow train that was an hour longer on the road than it might have been," answered Conroy. "My employers ordered me abroad yesterday. Not very far this time. Only to Spain."
"For long?"
"I may be away three months, or I may be away six. It was impossible for me to start until I had seen you again."
There was something in his tone, as he spoke these words, that thrilled Ella's heart, and made her cheeks flush rosy-red. She was glad that it was too dark for him to see her face.
"I walked from the station direct to the Hall," resumed Conroy, after a pause. "Mrs. Toynbee told me where you had gone. She was beginning to be a little uneasy at your long stay on board. Not much so, only in her placid way. 'Miss Winter's movements cannot always be calculated beforehand,' she said to me."
Conroy spoke in imitation of Mrs. Toynbee's mincing way of speaking. Ella laughed.
"I believe she sets me down in her own mind as the most erratic and eccentric young woman it has ever been her fortune to live with."
"What a pity you are not more commonplace. She would like you so very much better," said Conroy. "However, though Mrs. Toynbee might be satisfied to account for your absence after her easy fashion, it did not satisfy me. I walked down to the village, and inquired among the boatmen whether any of them had seen you return. Several of them had seen you go out to the wreck, but no one had seen you come back, and they could not think what was keeping you. Then I hesitated no longer. I hired a boat, and got these two worthy fellows to accompany me. When we were about half a mile from shore we saw a bright tongue of flame leap suddenly up on the wreck: we knew that you must be in distress, and the men redoubled their efforts at the oars. The rest you know."
Conroy felt the hand that he was holding press his fingers softly.
"I had given up all hope of rescue," said Ella. "It must have been the special hand of Providence that brought you down to-day!"
"All the same, it was excessively careless of Hubert Stone not to make sure that the boat was fast; unpardonably so. In his place I should never forgive myself."
Ella made no response. Conroy judged from her silence that the matter had too thoroughly frightened her to be a pleasant topic of conversation: so he did not again allude to it. Stone had no doubt done his best to remedy his neglect by swimming off to get succour, and so for the present nothing more was said.
What a thankful heart was Ella's when she stepped out of the boat on to the sandy beach! She had been mercifully snatched from what at one time seemed certain death, and she was profoundly grateful to Him "whose mercy endureth for ever."
The villagers had seen the signal on the wreck, and men, women, and children hurried down to the shore. They crowded round Ella when she stepped out of the boat, and greeted her and Conroy with heartfelt cheers. Then Ella broke down. Her tears came hot and fast, and for a little while she could not say a word to any of them. A fly was soon obtained from the inn, and she was driven to the Hall. As they neared it, she looked at Conroy, who sat opposite to her.
"Please not to say anything to Mrs. Toynbee about what has occurred," she said, "or that you had to fetch me from the wreck. She will hear it to-morrow, of course; but really I feel that I could not bear questioning to-night."
And most adroitly did Conroy parry Mrs. Toynbee's remarks. The row on the sea had been longer than Miss Winter had expected, he said, and she was very tired.
Little sleep did Ella get that night. However tired she might be, her mind was intensely awake and excited; and the cold grey dawn was stealing into her room before she closed her eyes in forgetfulness. All through the night the wind blew in great gusts round the old house, the rain smote like whips on window and casement, and the thunderous beat of the sea on the low, sandy beach grew louder and more loud as the dark hours slowly dragged themselves away. It was a great storm: and one inmate of the Hall at any rate, apart from Miss Winter, had her rest broken by it.
This was a stranger, named Betsy Tucker, who had entered the Hall as an additional servant a week or two before, the place having been procured for her by Mrs. Keen. The mother of this young woman had once lived at Nullington; she had recently died, and the daughter wrote to Mrs. Keen, who had been a companion of her mother in early life, to ask if she could find her a good situation; upon which the landlady spoke for her to Miss Winter, hearing that a third housemaid was needed at the Hall.
The girl, who knew nothing of the superstitious reports rife at Heron Dyke, slept in a room by herself. On this night she could not get to sleep for the noise of the wind; suddenly, during its pauses, she heard, or thought she heard, footsteps pacing the corridor outside her door. Much startled, the girl held her breath, and became convinced she was not mistaken: she heard them distinctly. They came and went several times, once or twice they were accompanied by a low moan. Betsy lay working herself into a fever.
She could bear this in the dark no longer; so she struck a match and lighted her candle. Then, as she was sitting up in bed listening to the footsteps, she heard them stop close to her door, and saw the handle of the door move; some one was turning it from the outside. For the moment she forgot that she had locked it; she screamed aloud; and, throwing her arms out of bed in her terror, upset the candle, and was left in darkness.
"You may be sure there was no more sleep for me all night," said Betsy, when relating this to her fellow-servants the following morning. "But now--who could have been there? I heard the steps, and I heard the moans, and I saw the handle of the door turn: it's as true as that I am here to tell you."
Such was the story she whispered. Her awe-struck listeners thought of Katherine Keen, but not one of them mentioned the name. Betsy slept alone, and they would not frighten her unnecessarily.
Early in the day came tidings that the _Seamew_ was no longer to be seen. As predicted, the brig had gone to pieces during the gale. Ella shuddered when the news was told her: could it be that Hubert Stone was still on board? Several planks and some broken spars were washed ashore in the course of the following tide.
The moment Ella had awakened that morning, the warning spoken by Hubert rang in her ears: "What you hold, you hold by fraud: a dozen words from me, and Heron Dyke would know you as its mistress no more." Surely, she reasoned, they could be the words of no other than a madman!
Nevertheless, they haunted her. What--she could not help asking herself--what if they were true?--what then?--was there any hidden secret--any fraud connected with her succession to the property? She could not think it possible. Still, do what she might, she did not get them out of her mind. Last night, in the joy of her deliverance from a cruel death, and under the glad influence of Conroy's presence, she had thought but little of them; but this morning, when her mind was fresh and clear, they were branded on her memory as if with a red-hot iron.
Nothing was seen of Hubert at the Hall that day, and Miss Winter made no inquiry respecting him. She thought it not unlikely, after what had passed between them, that he would have the grace to absent himself for a little time. Conroy had spoken of the keg of spirits and the horn drinking-cup he saw below--in fact, she had seen them herself; she felt little doubt that Hubert had imbibed some, which in a degree might account for his ill-behaviour, and that he was now ashamed of himself. It would be impossible to retain him as steward at the Hall, but Miss Winter could recommend him elsewhere. Meanwhile she did not intend to speak of what had passed, but to bury it in oblivion. It was not a pleasant thing in any way, either to speak or to think of.
Mr. Conroy was at Heron Dyke betimes on the morning after the visit to the wreck. He was anxious to hear that Ella had suffered in no way from her adventure: at least, that was what he told Mrs. Toynbee, for Miss Winter was not yet downstairs when he reached the Hall; but there may have been some other motive in his mind of which he did not choose to speak. What a glad light leapt into Ella's eyes when she walked into the room and saw who was there! Conroy's earnest face brightened as if with a sudden burst of sunshine, while he took her hand for a moment and inquired after her health. Truth to tell, Ella had a slight headache this morning, but not for worlds would she have owned to it. They sat and talked about the gale and other matters, but never alluded to the adventure on the wreck, Mrs. Toynbee interposing one of her little commonplaces now and again; and so the time wore on till luncheon.
"Won't you go out for a short walk with me, Miss Winter?" asked Conroy, as they rose from the meal. "You have no idea how delightful the park is after last night's rain."
"Delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Toynbee. "Why, the footpaths must be in a complete puddle."
"So they are, madam. But, none the less, I maintain that the park this morning is delightful."
"And there's still enough wind to almost carry you away; and the rain may recommence at any moment! persisted the lady.
"Those are facts it would be useless to dispute," rejoined Conroy, equably.
"On such a day I am sure Miss Winter would be far better indoors."
"Nay, I think it just the day to be out," said Ella, with a blush and a smile; "and I have thick boots, you know, Mrs. Toynbee. A little wind, a little sunshine, and the possibility of a shower: what more could any reasonable creature wish for? Mr. Conroy, I shall be ready in three minutes."
Mrs. Toynbee shrugged her shoulders in mild protest, but she said no more.
The paths in the park were certainly very sloppy, and the wind when they faced it almost took away their breath; but what cared those two for such trifles? they but served to enhance the charms of their walk. Conroy took a turning that led to the shore. "Not that way, please," said Ella, with a slight shudder. She did not care to look upon the sea again at present; so they turned their faces another way, finding a dry and sheltered walk, where they were free from the impertinences of the wind, by the edge of the plantation of young larches which covered a piece of rising ground to the left of the Hall. Here they paced backwards and forwards for upwards of an hour.
The rain last night had washed the atmosphere so that even the most distant objects looked sharp and clearly defined. Away over the sea, the sun streamed down through a rift in the grey, low-hanging clouds, that widened out one minute till a glimpse of blue sky could be seen beyond it, and the next contracted its fleecy walls again till nothing was left save a thin shaft of blinding light that smote the water like a golden spear. Faint resinous odours were wafted fitfully from the plantation; in the hollows of the footpaths tiny pools of rain-water shivered in the cool September wind.
Ella seemed in a peculiarly happy mood. Why she should be so she could not have explained even to herself, for had not Conroy told her that he was about to go away for an indefinite length of time, and was not the echo of Hubert Stone's mysterious words ringing in her memory? But so it was. She could no more account for her gladness than a child can for its fondness for play. Had she any faintest premonition, had her heart secretly warned her that a momentous instant was at hand? Be that as it may, Ella found fifty different things to talk about, and seemed nervously anxious not to let the conversation flag for a moment. She had all sorts of questions to ask about Spain, the country and the people, as though she had never read a book about it in her life. She hoped that Conroy would not run into any unnecessary danger, and now and then at intervals he must send her a little sketch of some place that he had visited, just to prove to her that he was still alive. She had often had an idea that she should like to learn Spanish, and had been told that it was nearly as musical as Italian. She would buy a grammar and dictionary at once; it would be a capital occupation for the long evenings of the coming winter; and when Mr. Conroy should return in spring she should doubtless be able to greet him in the choicest Castilian.
Suddenly Ella paused in her talk to stand still. The clock over the Hall stables was striking the hour. "I did not suppose it was so late," she exclaimed. "I should have thought that the old clock was an hour fast, but that I know how painfully accurate it always is. We had better return. After what happened yesterday, Mrs. Toynbee may be sending the bellman round the village to cry me as lost."
"Give me ten minutes more, and then we will go," said the young man. "Who can tell when we shall see each other again?"
Ella tacitly assented, and they took a turn or two in silence. All her high spirits seemed suddenly to have deserted her.
"Before leaving you I have a few words to say to you: it was to say them that I have come all the way from London,"--and Conroy took one of her hands in his as he spoke thus, even as he had taken it last evening in the boat. Ella's heart gave a great bound, she drew in her breath with a half sigh and trembled from head to foot.
"Ella--may I dare to call you so?--I could not go away without telling you how I love you, without telling you that I have loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you that evening last year at Mrs. Carlyon's, and that I can never cease to love you while I live! I could not go away--Ella, I _could_ not--without asking you whether I may come and claim you as my wife when I return."
He held both her hands by this time, and was gazing down fondly into her face. She had turned very pale when he first began to speak, but by the time he had done two blush-roses burned in her cheeks. Tremors of love, and joy, and happiness unspeakable thrilled her heart. She was standing with downcast eyes, and she stood thus for a little while after he had ceased speaking. Her breath came and went quickly, the tears were rising. Another moment and she had lifted her glance to his. Her lips were quivering with emotion, but from her eyes, love--love not to be mistaken for anything else--looked out at Conroy through a mist of tears. Not one word did she say; there was no necessity to say it. That one look told Conroy all he cared to know. He folded her in his arms, he pressed his lips to hers, he whispered words in her ears sacred to her alone.
As they were walking slowly back arm in arm through the park, Conroy broke the thrilling silence. "Do you know, cara mia, what the world will call me? It will brand me as a fortune-hunter, and say that I should never have sought you for my wife had you not been the mistress of Heron Dyke."
The words sent a shock through her, like a dart. Was she the mistress of Heron Dyke? She was not, if there were truth in what Hubert Stone had declared to her. Her lover's constancy might be put to the test before long in a way he little dreamed of now. "You can afford to smile at anything the world may choose to say," she answered. "So can I so long as I have vanity enough to think that you care for me for myself alone."
"But that I had the fear of your broad acres before my eyes I should have spoken to you long ere this," he answered. "Had your uncle been a poor man, or you not his heiress, I should have asked you at his hands last autumn."
How sweet the words sounded to her--how true was their ring!--and after what that other man had said!
"Suppose that when you return from Spain, you should find that I am no longer mistress of Heron Dyke!" she cried impulsively. "Suppose you should find that, by some mischance or other, I am poor instead of rich? What would you say then to your intended wife?"
"I should say, 'What seems to you a loss has made me one of the happiest fellows alive.' I should say, 'Let us marry at once, however humble our home may be.' I should say, 'I am glad that your riches have taken to themselves wings; it is only fit and proper that a man should work for his wife.' I don't think," he added, "that I could love you more than I do now, but somehow you might perhaps seem closer to me if you came to me as the beggar-maid went to King Cophetua."
Ella sighed. It was happiness to hear him talk thus; and yet his words brought to her a sting of pain. How glad she would be to endow him with every worldly good--and who seemed so fit to be the master of Heron Dyke? And yet, perhaps--who could say?--he might love her all the better if she went to him in a cotton gown, with a simple flower in her hair.
"But what makes you talk as if Heron Dyke and you were about to part company?" he presently asked.
"Perhaps we may be: I cannot tell," she answered, a cloud as of trouble passing over her face.
Conroy saw it, and looked perplexed. He bit his lip.
"Pardon me, Ella, but I do not see how anything of that kind could come to pass. Your uncle was too shrewd a man not to take every proper precaution in a matter so gravely important."
Ella did not answer for a few moments, and when she spoke it was with hesitation. "Might there not be such a thing as a flaw in the title?"
Conroy started slightly. "In his title, do you mean? I cannot think of anything more improbable. Have you any reason for suggesting this?"
"Here we are at home," said Ella hurriedly, for they had reached it. "I cannot tell you anything more, and you must please not ask me to. In any case, whatever happens, I trust that I shall be enabled to do my duty."
"That I am sure you will always do," responded Conroy, warmly. "Remember," he added in a low tone, "that in good fortune or evil fortune my love for you can never change."
They were standing under the porch, not yet having rung. She looked up with a shy sweet smile as he spoke. The opportunity was too tempting to be resisted; he might not have another one for ever so long. He was an audacious man in many ways, and before Ella was aware, his arms were round her and his lips pressed to hers.