Max Van Duren was accepted on probation as a suitor for the hand of Miss Byrne.
Everything now depended on Miriam's ability to carry out the programme laid down for her by her father. The task thus set before her was repugnant to her feelings in many ways, and yet there was a strange sort of fascination in the thought that she alone had power enough over this man to draw from him a secret that he would reveal to no living soul else. But it was requisite that even she should go to work very carefully in the matter. It was requisite that not the slightest suspicion as to her motives should be aroused in Van Duren's naturally suspicious mind. Time and patience were essentially necessary. To have seemed anxious, or in a hurry, would have defeated everything.
Thus it fell out that, nearly every evening when he was in town, Max Van Duren was admitted for an hour to the society of the woman to whose love-spells he had fallen so easy a victim. It could have been no greater surprise to any one than it was to himself to find such toils woven so strongly about him--to find himself, at fifty years of age, and with all his hard worldly experience, as weak as any school boy before the foolish witchery of a pretty face.
Every day his infatuation, for it was nothing less, seemed to grow stronger. While coquetting with him, and leading him on to believe that she really did care a little for him in her heart, she was careful to restrain all lover-like familiarities within the smallest possible limits. She could not prevent his pressing her hand now and then, and she even schooled herself into letting him once and again, and as an immense favour, touch the tips of her fingers with his lips. But that was all. Never once was his arm allowed to insinuate itself round her waist. Never once would she sit alone in the room with him for even five minutes. Her father, infirm and deaf as he was, or appeared to be, was always there--a power to be appealed to should the necessity for such an appeal ever arise.
Van Duren growled a little occasionally at being so persistently forced to keep his distance; but Miriam was as obdurate as a flint.
"I don't believe you have a heart!" he said to her, rather savagely, one night, after she had refused to let him kiss even the tips of her fingers.
"I thought you told me only ten minutes ago that I was the happy possessor of yours," she said, demurely.
"Pshaw! You know well enough what I mean. In any case, you can't be possessed of much feeling."
"I pricked my finger this morning, and it seemed to me that my feelings were very acute indeed. But doubtless you know best."
"I wonder whether you have anything beyond the very vaguest idea of what it is to love."
"Are you not doing your best to teach me? And do you not find me an apt pupil?"
"On the contrary, you are uncommonly dull."
"My natural stupidity, doubtless. But then, you know, some people set up for being teachers who have no right to the name."
"In the present case the teacher's lessons are treated with contempt."
"The teacher expects his pupil to read before she has properly learned to spell; expects, too, to be paid for his services before he has earned his first quarter's salary."
Miriam's tongue had a readiness about it that Van Duren could not match, and in such encounters he was invariably worsted. He liked Miriam all the better in that she was ready of speech and quick of tongue. This bright, clever girl would be his own property before long, and it could not but redound to his credit that his wife should not only have the good looks which go so often without brains, but that she should be keen-witted into the bargain--a woman whom he could introduce to his friends with pride, and with the knowledge that they would envy him his new-found treasure.
Presently Mr. Van Duren's birthday came round, and nothing would satisfy him on this occasion but that he should drive Miriam and her father down to Greenwich, and that they should all dine together at the "Ship." As he wished, so it was agreed.
"It will be a good chance, Miriam dear, for getting out of him what we want to know," said the old man to his daughter when they were alone. "A good dinner, and a glass or two of champagne, will help to loosen his tongue and to keep his suspicions fast asleep. There could not be a better opportunity."
They drove to Greenwich in a close carriage, out of consideration for the delicate state of Mr. Byrne's health. But the old man freshened up wonderfully at the dinner-table, and proposed Mr. Van Duren's health in an eulogistic but somewhat rambling speech, he being evidently of opinion, once or twice, that quite a roomful of guests were listening to him. Miriam at last was obliged to force him gently down into his chair, and tempt him into silence with some grapes. When coffee was brought in he looked vacantly around.
"I feel just a little bit sleepy," he said "and if none of the company objects, I'll have forty winks in that pleasant-looking chair in the corner. But mind, if there's going to be any harmony, I'm your man, and 'Tom Bowling' 's the song that I'll sing."
Three minutes later he was snoring gently, with his bandana thrown over his head, although as yet there were no flies to trouble him.
"Is it too cool to sit out on the balcony?" asked Van Duren.
"I am afraid it is," answered Miriam; "but not perhaps too cold to sit by the open window." She did not want to get out of earshot of her father.
This evening she felt more nervous than she had ever felt before. It was the consciousness of what she was expected to do that affected her thus. She looked a little paler than ordinary, and, by consequence, a little more refined; and as she sat there in her black silk dress, with a little ruffle made of tulle and pink ribbon round her throat, Van Duren vowed to himself that he had never seen her look more thoroughly charming.
"I shall not feel satisfied unless you smoke," she said, as they sat down near the open window. "I have heard you say that you always like to smoke a couple of cigars after dinner."
"But that is a bachelor's vile habit, and one which I am going to learn to give up."
"It will be time enough to give it up when you are no longer a bachelor. Confess, now: did you not smuggle two or three cigars into your pocket before you left home?"
Van Duren laughed. "You must be a witch," he said, as he pulled a cigar-case out of his pocket.
"I am no witch," said Miriam. "I have only found out one of your little weaknesses."
"I wish you could discover my virtues as readily."
"A man's virtues--when he has any--don't require much discovery; he is generally quite ready to proclaim their existence himself. We women know what your sex like. We maintain our empire over you not by flattering you about your virtues, but by studying your weaknesses. But now, smoke."
Miriam struck a fusee, and Van Duren bit the end off a cigar and lighted it. A little table was between them, on which stood a bottle of sparkling hock and two glasses. The evening was closing in, but the sun had not yet set, and the broad bosom of the river lay fair and clear before them, with its steamers, and lighters, and pleasure-boats, and incoming or outgoing ships, passing to and fro unceasingly--a never-ending panorama, abounding with life, colour, and variety.
"I wonder whether you will always be as indulgent to me as you are to-day," said Van Duren, as he exhaled a long curl of fragrant smoke.
"That would depend upon whether you were always as good as you have been to-day."
"I want you, this afternoon," he said, "to tell me where you would like us to spend our honeymoon."
"As we have not yet agreed that there is to be a honeymoon, the question where we shall spend it seems to me slightly premature."
"Let us be like children for once, and make believe. Let us make believe that you and I are going to be married in a month from now, and that I have asked you where you would like to spend the honeymoon."
Miriam did not answer for a few moments, but sat with one finger pressed to her lips, a pretty embodiment of perplexity. "Really, I don't know," she said--"I don't know where I should like to go. So long as I got away to some strange place, I don't think I should care much where it was."
"How would Paris suit you?"
"Yes--yes!" cried Miriam, clapping her hands. "I should like to go to Paris above all places in the world. To see the shops, and the toilettes, and the gay crowds, and--and the hundreds of other attractions: that would suit me exactly."
"Many ladies, at such times, prefer some quiet nook either in the country or at the seaside."
"Yes, prefer to bury themselves alive, in fact. But that would not suit me, however much I might like my husband. In such a case, I am quite certain that by the end of the first week I should begin to think him a great stupid, and I am equally sure that he would already have discovered with what a shallow-pated individual he had mated himself for life. The experiment would be far too dangerous a one for me."
"A very neatly-framed excuse for preferring Paris to Bognor or Bowness," said Van Duren, with a smile.
"How cleverly you unravel my motives! But I think I told you before that I was shallow. Be warned in time!"
"I have never heeded warnings all my life. I have always preferred keeping my own headstrong course."
"In other words, you are obstinate."
"Some of my friends call me pig-headed--but that is sheer malice."
"How beautiful the river looks this afternoon!" said Miriam, a moment or two later. "I never look on an outward-bound ship without feeling a sort of vague longing to be on board her, sailing away into that strange world of which I know so little."
"The chances are that before you had been on board a dozen hours you would wish with all your heart that you were on shore again--especially if there happened to be a capful of wind."
"Oh, I quite believe that. Being a woman, it only stands to reason that I should be both ill and frightened. Men are never either one or the other." Then, in a little while, she added: "Still, nonsense apart, I believe that I should very much like to go a long voyage."
"Unless you chanced to have very pleasant companions, you would soon grow weary of the everlasting monotony of sea and sky: sky and sea."
"I'm not quite so sure on that point. I cannot conceive that either the sky or the sea is ever really monotonous. And yet you, who have travelled so much, ought to know far better than I," she added, a minute later, as if correcting herself. "You have travelled much in the course of your life, Mr. Van Duren, have you not?"
"Not so much, perhaps, as you imagine. Still, I have seen something of the world."
"And yet you never talk to me about your travels! You have never told me a single one of your adventures."
"I am not aware that I have any adventures to tell you about," said Van Duren, with an amused expression. "How can a man meet with adventures in these days of railroads and steamboats?"
"Still, you must have encountered something, or seen something, that would be worth telling about."
"Really, my life has been a most prosaic one."
"Have you never shot a lion or a tiger?"
"Certainly not."
"Perhaps you have hunted a wild boar?"
"I have never even seen such an animal."
"Have you ever quarrelled with a man, and then fought a duel with him?"
"I have quarrelled with many men, but have never fought a duel."
"Have you ever been up in a balloon or down a coal-mine?"
"Neither one nor the other."
"Have you ever been pursued by Red Indians, or by wolves, or had a fight with a bear?"
"I have never been so fortunate. I wish, for your sake, that I had."
"Have you ever been shipwrecked?" Van Duren gave a little start, but did not immediately answer.
He slowly exhaled the smoke, in a long, thin curl, from between his lips before he spoke. "Yes--I have been shipwrecked," he said, at last.
Miriam's merry laugh rang out, and she clapped her hands for glee. "Every man knows some adventure worth telling," she said. "Yours is a shipwreck. I knew that I should find out what it was at last.--And now you will tell me all about it, won't you?" She looked at him with a pretty air of entreaty, and moved her chair a little closer to his.
"There was really nothing about the affair that is worth telling," he said. He was intent, just now, on choosing another cigar out of his case, smelling at and nipping first one and then another. "It was a very trifling piece of business, I assure you."
"Still, it was a shipwreck, and you were in it," urged Miriam. "Of course, if you do not choose to tell me anything about it, I have nothing further to say in the matter."
"You are a little too hasty," said Van Duren, deprecatingly. "If I really thought it would interest you----" and then he stopped.
"I suppose I ought not to feel interested in such trifles--but I do," said Miriam, with a pout. "After all, it is not so many years since I was a child, and I daresay I have not yet got rid of all my childish tastes. I always did love to read and hear about shipwrecks."
"Then you shall hear about mine," said Van Duren, with more heartiness of tone than he had yet used. He was flattered by her evident interest in himself and his fortunes. There could be no possible harm in telling her the story of the shipwreck: it was only that the telling of it would rouse into morbid activity a snake's nest of terrible recollections, that he would fain have let sleep for ever.
The cloud that had begun to lower over Miriam's face vanished in a moment. "That is really very nice of you," she said. And then she struck another fusee and held it while he lighted his cigar. Van Duren did not speak till he had swallowed a couple of glasses of hock, one immediately after the other.
"As I said before, this shipwreck-story of mine is hardly worth telling. It is true that it seemed serious enough to me at the time, but it is associated with no thrilling adventures or hair-breadth escapes. Altogether, it was a very commonplace affair."
"Still, it was a shipwreck, and there never was a shipwreck yet that wasn't worth hearing about. So now begin, please, and remember that you must tell me all the details, and make a nice, long story of it."
Poor old Byrne, with his handkerchief thrown over his head, and his hands crossed comfortably over his stomach, was still in the middle of his forty winks, and happily oblivious of all terrestrial troubles.
"What I am about to tell you happened many years ago," said Van Duren.
"How many?--a dozen? I like people to be precise in their dates."
"Oh, more than a dozen. Nearly two dozen."
"Shall we put it down, then, that it was about twenty years ago?"
"Yes, that is near enough." There was a perceptible shade of annoyance in his tone as he spoke.
"Now, if you are going to be petulant, I won't speak to you again all the evening. If you knew more about young ladies, and their whims and ways, you would feel flattered by the interest I am taking in your narrative."
"I do feel flattered by your interest," said Van Duren. "But I did not know that you would care for such minute details."
"Little things always interest our sex--our lives are made up of petty details. And now, if you will make a fresh start, I will try not to interrupt you again."
"Well, then, about twenty years ago, more or less, I made up my mind that I would leave England for ever and try my fortune in the New World. A legacy had come to me from an unexpected quarter, and it seemed to me that I could invest my money better in America than in England, and that my chances of making a fortune were greater there than here. I went down to Liverpool with the view of selecting a ship in which to sail. Whilst staying at the hotel there, I fell in with a countryman of my own, whom I had known some years previously, and to whom I had once done some small service. He was now in the shipping-trade, and when he found that I was going to America he offered me a free passage in a vessel, of which he was part owner, that was to sail in a few days for Halifax, Nova Scotia. The offer was too good a one to be refused, and on a certain Saturday morning I found myself, and all my belongings, on board the Albatross, dropping gently down with the tide. We had hardly got beyond the mouth of the Mersey, when it began to blow heavily, and by midnight we were in the midst of a terrific gale. The Albatross was laden with a general cargo, and I was the only passenger on board. I shall never forget the magnificent sight that met my gaze when I went on deck next morning. Such a scene I never saw before, and I never want to behold again. The wind was still very high, but the sun shone brightly, and the atmosphere was so clear that the Welsh hills, although, in reality, several miles away, appeared quite close at hand. Presently the captain came up, looking very serious. 'I am sorry to tell you that we sprang a leak in the night,' he said, 'and I am afraid we shall have to put back to Liverpool, in order to have it stopped. An hour later he came to me again. The water is gaining on us so fast,' he said, 'that I shall have to make for Marhyddoc Bay, which is the nearest place I know of. I am afraid she would founder before I could get her back to Liverpool.' He then gave orders for the ship's head to be put about, and we made at once for the Welsh coast."
"What a dreadful disappointment for you!" said Miriam. "How annoyed I should have been, had I been in your place."
"My feelings were very bitter ones, I assure you," said Van Duren. "But there was no room for anger: in fact, it was becoming a question whether we should even succeed in saving our lives. Near to the coast as we were, it was doubtful whether the ship would not go down before we could reach it, and the sea was such that it would have been next to impossible for any boat to have lived in it."
"How very dreadful!" exclaimed Miriam, with a shudder.
"Those were moments of intense anxiety for all of us. One of the boats had been stove in during the night; the two remaining ones were got ready for lowering at a moment's notice. The water in the hold kept rising steadily, and at last the men refused to work at the pumps any longer. We laboured slowly on towards the land, but with every minute the ship seemed to become more unmanageable, and to be sinking deeper in the trough of the sea. We had weathered the corner of a promontory, and were within a quarter of a mile of shore, and in somewhat smoother water, when the captain gave the order to lower the boats. The ship's last moment was evidently at hand, and if we did not want to go down with her, we must hurry into the boats as quickly as possible. 'With close packing they will hold us,' said the captain; 'but it's a precious good job that, we haven't far to go.'"
"I was not overburdened with personal luggage, but one article I had that I was particularly desirous of saving. It was a small silver-clamped box, and was full of the most valuable property. In fact, I may tell you that inside that box were my whole worldly possessions. I had brought it up from my cabin and placed it on deck ready to be lowered into the boat. 'You can't take that thing with you,' said the mate, sternly, 'and if you don't look sharp, you'll be left behind yourself.' 'But I must take it,' I said; 'it holds everything I have in the world.' 'Can't help that. I tell you, it can't go. Boys, over with him.' And before I knew what had happened, I found myself dropped over the ship's side into the boat, and the remainder of the crew scrambling after me one by one. The captain and the rest of the crew were in the other boat, and had already cast themselves loose from the ship. 'Two hundred--five hundred pounds,' I cried, 'to any one who will bring that box safely ashore!' 'Hold your tongue, you fool!' cried the mate, 'or else we'll send you to fish for your confounded box at the bottom of the sea;' and with that he pushed away from the sinking ship. I said no more, but sat in dumb despair, hardly caring whether I reached the shore or not. The boat was laden to the water's edge, and I could hardly wonder at the mate's refusal to take my box. 'There she goes!' cried one of the men a few moments later. 'Farewell to the dear old Albatross!' cried a second. I lifted up my eyes. Ship and box had disappeared for ever. A quarter of an hour later I landed at Marhyddoc--a ruined man."
"Gracious me! what a dreadful misfortune!" cried Miriam. "So you did not go to America, after all?"
"I did not. It seemed to me that as I had to begin the world afresh, it would be better to do so among friends and acquaintances than among strangers. I did begin it afresh, and the result has proved far more satisfactory than I should have dared to hope."
"Your narrative has interested me very much, Mr. Van Duren," said Miriam. "It will be something for me to think about when I am sitting alone at my work. I shall think of you far oftener than I should have done had you never told me the story of the Albatross."
"Then I am indeed repaid," said Van Duren, with fervour. "To live in your thoughts is my highest ambition."
"How papa is sleeping," cried Miriam, suddenly. "He will be awake half the night if I don't rouse him."
The waiter came in with lights, and Miriam shook her father by the shoulder.
He awoke querulous and shivering with cold: so, after a hurried cup of tea, they started at once for home, Van Duren sat for a great part of the way with one of Miriam's hands pressed tightly in his. Miriam's soul shrank within her at his touch, but she was obliged to submit. She consoled herself with the thought that only for a very short time longer would the necessity for submitting to his hateful attentions exist. She had wormed out of him the great secret that he had hidden so carefully for twenty long years. The next question was whether any practical use could be made of the knowledge.
"Did you hear what passed this afternoon?" asked Miriam of her father as soon as they were alone together in their own room.
"Every syllable of it, my dear, and very cleverly you managed it."
"And now that you have got all this information, what step do you intend to take next?"
"The next step I intend to take is to advertise in the second column of the Times."
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.