Joan Haste
Henry nodded an assent, and they walked homewards silently, either because their conversation was exhausted, or because they were lost in their own thoughts.
* * *It may be remembered that Mr. Milward had announced his intention of attending Rosham church that afternoon. As Ellen knew that he was not in the habit of honouring any place of worship with his presence, this determination of her admirer gave her cause for thought.
For a year or more Mr. Milward’s attentions towards herself had been marked, but as yet he had said nothing of a decisive nature. Could it be that upon this occasion he intended to cross the line which divides attention from courtship? She believed that he did so intend, for, otherwise, why did he take the trouble to come several miles to church, and why had he suggested to her that they might go out walking together afterwards, as he had done privately on the previous evening? At any rate, if such were his mind, Ellen determined that he should have every opportunity of declaring it; and it was chiefly for this reason that she had arranged Emma’s expedition with her brother, since it would then be easy for her to propose that Mr. Milward should escort herself in search of them.
Ellen did not deceive herself. She knew Mr. Milward’s faults, his vulgarity and assumption made her wince, and on the whole perhaps she disliked him. But on the other hand his admiration flattered her vanity, for many were the women who had tried to excite it and failed; his wealth appealed to her love of luxury and place, and she was well aware that, once in the position of his wife, she could guide his weaker will in whatever direction she desired. Moreover his faults were all on the surface, he had no secret vices, and she trusted to her own tact if not to counterbalance, at least to divert attention from his errors of manner.
In due course Ellen and Lady Graves went to church, but to the private mortification of the former Mr. Milward did not appear. At length, much to her relief, towards the middle of the second lesson a disturbance in the nave behind her assured her of his presence. She would not look round, indeed, but her knowledge of him told her that nobody else arriving so painfully late would have ventured to interrupt the congregation in this unnecessary fashion. Meanwhile Mr. Milward had entered the pew behind her, occupying the same place that Henry had sat in that morning, whence by many means, such as the dropping of books and the shifting of hassocks, he endeavoured to attract her attention; but in vain, for Ellen remained inflexible and would not so much as turn her head. His efforts, however, did not altogether fail of their effect, inasmuch as she could see that they drove her mother almost to distraction, for Lady Graves liked to perform her devotions in quiet.
“My dear,” she whispered to her daughter at the termination of the service, “I really wish that when he comes to church Mr. Milward could be persuaded not to disturb other people by his movements, and generally to adopt a less patronising attitude towards the Almighty,” – a sarcasm that in after days Ellen was careful to repeat to him.
At the doorway they met, and Ellen greeted him with affected surprise:
“I thought that you had given up the idea of coming, Mr. Milward.”
“Oh no; I was a little late, that was all. Did you not hear me come in?”
“No,” said Ellen sweetly.
“If Ellen did not hear you I am sure that everybody else did, Mr. Milward,” remarked Lady Graves with some severity, and then with a sigh she glided away to visit her son’s grave. By this time they were at the church gate, and Ellen turned up the path that ran across the park to the Hall.
“How about our walk?” said Milward.
“Our walk? Oh! I had forgotten. Do you wish to walk?”
“Yes; that is what I came for.”
“Indeed! I thought you had come to church. Well, my brother and Miss Levinger have gone to the Cliff, and if you like we can meet them – that is, unless you think that it is going to rain.”
“Oh no, it won’t rain,” he answered.
In a few minutes they had left the park and were following the same road that Henry and Emma had taken. But Ellen did not talk of the allegorical mystery of the spring, nor did Edward Milward set out his views as to the necessity of religion. On the contrary, he was so silent that Ellen began to be afraid they would meet the others before he found the courage to do that which, from the nervousness of his manner, she was now assured he meant to do.
At length it came, and with a rush.
“Ellen,” said Edward in a husky voice.
“I beg your pardon,” replied that young lady with dignity.
“Miss Graves, I mean. I wish to speak to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Milward.”
“I want – to ask – you to marry me.”
Ellen heard the fateful words, and a glow of satisfaction warmed her breast. She had won the game, and even then she found time to reflect with complacency upon the insight into character which had taught her from the beginning to treat her admirer with affected coldness and assumed superiority.
“This is very sudden and unexpected,” she said, gazing over his head with her steady blue eyes.
Her tone frightened Edward, and he stammered -
“Do you really think so? You are so clever that I should have thought that you must have seen it coming for a long while. I know I have only just been able to prevent myself from proposing on two or three occasions – no, that’s a mistake, I don’t mean that. Oh! there! Ellen, will you have me? I know that you are a great deal too good for me in a way – ever so much cleverer, and all that sort of thing; but I am truly fond of you, I am really. I am well off, and I know that you would be a credit to me and help me on in the world, for I want to go into Parliament some time, and – there, I think that is all I have got to say.”
Ellen considered this speech rapidly. Its manner was somewhat to seek, but its substance was most satisfactory and left nothing to be desired. Accordingly she concluded that the time had come when she might with safety unbend a little.
“Really, Mr. Milward,” she said in a softer voice, and looking for a second into his eyes, “this is very flattering to me, and I am much touched. I can assure you I had no idea that my friend had become a” – and Ellen hesitated and even blushed as she murmured the word – ”lover. I think that perhaps it would be best if I considered your offer for a while, in order that I may make perfectly sure of the state of my own feelings before I allow myself to say words which would be absolutely irrevocable, since, were I once to pledge myself – — ” and she ceased, overcome.
“Oh! pray don’t take time to consider,” said Edward. “I know what that means: you will think better of it, and tell me to-morrow that you can only be a sister to me, or something of the sort.”
Ellen looked at him a while, then said, “Do you really understand what you ask of me, and mean all you say?”
“Why, of course I do, Ellen: I am not an idiot. What do you suppose I should mean, if it is not that I want you to marry me?”
“Then, Edward,” she whispered, “I will say yes, now and for always. I will be your wife.”
“Well, that’s all right,” answered Edward, wiping his brow with his pocket-handkerchief. “Why couldn’t you tell me so at first, dear? It would have spared me a great deal of agitation.”
Then it occurred to him that further demonstrations were usual on these occasions, and, dropping the handkerchief, he made a somewhat clumsy effort to embrace her. But Ellen was not yet prepared to be kissed by Mr. Milward. She felt that these amatory proceedings would require a good deal of leading up to, so far as she was concerned.
“No, no,” she murmured – ”not now and here: I am upset.” And, withdrawing her cheek, she gave him her hand to kiss.
It struck Edward that this was a somewhat poor substitute, more especially as she was wearing dogskin gloves, whereon he must press his ardent lips. However, he made the best of it, and even repeated the salute, when a sound caused him to look up.
Now, the scene of this passionate encounter was in a lane that ran from the main road to the coast; moreover, it was badly chosen, for within three paces of it the lane turned sharply to the right. Down this path, still wrapped in silence, came Henry and Emma, and as Edward was in the act of kissing Ellen’s hand they turned the corner. Emma was the first to perceive them.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a start.
Then Henry saw. “What the deuce – -!” he said.
Ellen took in the situation at a glance. It was discomposing, even to a person of her considerable nerve; but she felt that on the whole nothing could have happened more opportunely. Recovering themselves, Henry and Emma were beginning to advance again, as though they had seen nothing, when Ellen whispered hurriedly to her fiancé:
“You must explain to my brother at once.”
“All right,” said Edward. “I say, Graves, I dare say you were surprised when you saw me kissing Ellen’s hand, weren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Milward, I was surprised.”
“Well, you won’t be any more when I tell you that we are engaged to be married.”
“Forgive me,” said Henry, somewhat icily: “I am still surprised.” And in his heart he added, “How could Ellen do it! – how could she do it!”
Guessing what was passing in his mind, his sister looked at him warningly, and at that moment Emma began to murmur some confused congratulations. Then they set out homewards. Presently Ellen, who was a person of decision, and thought that she had better make the position clear without delay, managed to attach herself to her brother, leaving the other two to walk ahead out of hearing, much to their mutual disgust.
“You have not congratulated me, Henry,” she said, in a steady voice.
“Congratulated you, Ellen! Good Lord! how can I congratulate you?”
“And why not, pray? There is nothing against Mr. Milward that I have ever heard of. His character is irreproachable, and his past has never been tarnished by any excesses, which is more than can be said of many men. He is well born, and he has considerable means.”
“Very considerable, I understand,” interrupted Henry.
“And, lastly, he has a most sincere regard for me, as I have for him, and it was dear Reginald’s greatest wish that this should come about. Now may I ask you why I am not to be congratulated?”
“Well, if you want to know, because I think him insufferable. I cannot make out how a lady like yourself can marry such a man just for – — ” and he stopped in time.
By this time Ellen was seriously angry, and it must be admitted not altogether without cause.
“Really, my dear Henry,” she said, in her most bitter tones, “I am by no means sure that the epithet which you are so good as to apply to Mr. Milward would not be more suitable to yourself. You always were impossible, Henry – you see I imitate your frankness – and certainly your manners and temper have not improved at sea. Please let us come to an understanding once and for all: I mean to marry Mr. Milward, and if by chance any action or words of yours should cause that marriage to fall through, I will never forgive you. On reflection you must admit that this is purely my own affair. Moreover, you are aware of the circumstances of our family, which by this prudent and proper alliance I at any rate propose to do my best to improve.”
Henry looked at his stately and handsome sister and the cold anger that was written on her face, and thought to himself, “On the whole I am sorry for Milward, who, whatever his failings may be, is probably an honest man in his way.” But to Ellen he said:
“I apologise. In nautical language, I come up all I have said. You are quite right: I am a bear – I have often thought so myself – and my temper, which was never of the best, has been made much worse by all that I have seen and learned since I returned home, and because I am forced by duty to leave my profession. You must make allowances for me, and put up with it, and I for my part will do my best to cultivate a better frame of mind. And now, Ellen, I offer you my warm congratulations on your engagement. You are of an age to judge for yourself, and doubtless, as you say, you know your own business. I hope that you may be happy, and of course I need hardly add, even if my prejudice makes him uncongenial to me, that I shall do my best to be friendly with Mr. Milward, and to say nothing that can cause him to think he is not welcome in our family.”
Ellen heard and smiled: once more she had triumphed. Yet, while the smile was on her face, a sadness crept into her heart, which, if it was hard and worldly, was not really bad; feeling, as she did, that this bitterly polite speech of her brother’s had shut an iron door between them which could never be reopened. The door was shut, and behind her were the affectionate memories of childhood and many a loving delusion of her youth. Before her lay wealth and pride of place, and every luxury, but not a grain of love – unless indeed she should be so happy as to find the affection whereof death and the other circumstances of her life and character had deprived her, in the hearts of children yet to be. From her intended husband, be it noted, when custom had outward his passion and admiration for her, she did not expect love even in this hour of her engagement, and if it were forthcoming she knew that from him it would not satisfy her. Well, she knew also if she had done with “love” and other illusions, that she had chosen the better part according to her philosophy.
Chapter 8
Two Conversations
On arriving at the Hall, Ellen went at once to her mother’s room, while Edward retired to the library, where he was informed that Sir Reginald was to be found. Lady Graves received the news of her daughter’s engagement kindly, but without emotion, for since her son’s death nothing seemed to move her. Sir Reginald was more expansive. When Edward told him that he was engaged to Ellen, he took his hand and shook it warmly – not, indeed, that he had any especial affection for that young man, whose tone and manners did not chime in with his old-fashioned ideas of gentlemanly demeanour, but because he knew his wealth to be large, and rejoiced at the prospect of an alliance that would strengthen the tottering fortunes of his family.
Edward had always been a little afraid of Sir Reginald, whose stately and distant courtesy oppressed him, and this fear or respect stood the older man in good stead on the present occasion. It enabled him even to explain that Ellen would inherit little with as much dignity as though he were announcing that she had ten thousand a year in her own right, and, striking while the iron was hot, to extract a statement as to settlements.
Edward mentioned a sum that was liberal enough, but by a happy inspiration Sir Reginald hummed and hawed before making any answer – whereupon, fearing opposition to his suit, his would-be son-in-law corrected himself, adding to the amount he proposed to put into settlement a very handsome rentcharge on his real property in the event of his predeceasing Ellen.
“Yes, yes,” said Sir Reginald. “I think your amended proposal proper and even generous. But I am no business man – if I had been, things would be very different with me now – and my head for figures is so shockingly bad that perhaps you will not mind jotting down what you suggest on a piece of paper, so that I can think it over at my leisure and submit it to my lawyers. And then, will it be too much trouble to ask you to find Ellen, as I should like to congratulate her?”
“Shall I go at once? I can do the writing afterwards,” suggested Edward, with an instinctive shrinking from the cold record of pen and ink.
“No, no,” answered the old gentleman testily; “these money matters always worry me” – which was true enough – ”and I want to be done with them.”
So Edward wrote first and went afterwards, albeit not without qualms.
The sight of his lawyer’s face when he explained to him the terms of settlement on his intended marriage, that he himself had propounded in black and white, amply justified his doubts.
“Well, I never!” said the man of law; “they must know their way about at Rosham Hall. However, as you have put it in writing, you cannot get out of it now. But perhaps, Mr. Milward, next time you wish to make proposals of settlement on an almost penniless lady, you will consult me first.”
That night there was more outward show of conviviality in the cold Hall dining-room than there had been for many a day. Everybody drank champagne, and all the gentlemen made speeches with the exception of Henry, who contented himself with wishing health and happiness to Edward and his sister.
“You see,” Mr. Levinger whispered to him in the drawing-room, “I did well to caution you to be patient with the foibles of your future brother-in-law, and I was not far out in a surmise that at the time you may have thought impertinent.”
Henry shrugged his shoulders and made no answer.
After dinner Lady Graves, who always retired early, vanished to her room, Sir Reginald and Mr. Levinger went to the library, and Henry, after wandering disconsolately for a while about the great drawing-room, in a distant corner of which the engaged couple were carrying on a tête-à- tête, betook himself to the conservatory. Here he chanced upon Emma.
To-night she was dressed in white, wearing pearls upon her slender neck; and seated alone upon a bench in the moonlight, for the conservatory was not otherwise illuminated, she looked more like a spirit than a woman. Indeed, to Henry, who came upon her unobserved, this appearance was much heightened by a curious and accidental contrast. Immediately behind Emma was a life-sized marble replica of one of the most beautiful of the statues known to ancient art. There above this pale and spiritual maiden, with outstretched arms and alluring lips stood the image of Aphrodite, triumphing in her perfect nakedness.
Henry looked from one to the other, speculating as to which was the more lovely of these types of the spirit and the flesh. “Supposing,” he thought to himself, “that a man were obliged to take his choice between them, I wonder which he would choose, and which would bring him the greater happiness. For the matter of that, I wonder which I should choose myself. To make a perfect woman the two should be merged.”
Then he came forward, smiling at his speculation, and little knowing that before all was done this very choice would be forced upon him.
“I hope that I am not disturbing you, Miss Levinger,” he said; “but to tell you the truth I fled here for refuge, the drawing-room being engaged.”
Emma started, and seeing who it was, said, “Yes, I thought so too; that is why I came away. I suppose that you are very much pleased, Captain Graves?”
“What pleases others pleases me,” he answered grimly. “I am not going to marry Mr. Milward.”
“Why don’t you like him?” she asked.
“I never said I did not like him. I have no doubt that he is very well, but he is not quite the sort of man with whom I have been accustomed to associate – that is all.”
“Well, I suppose that I ought not to say it, but I do not admire him either; not because he was rude to me last night, but because he seems so coarse. I dislike what is coarse.”
“Do you? Life itself is coarse, and I fancy that a certain amount of that quality is necessary to happiness in the world. After all, the flesh rules here, and not the spirit,” – and again he looked first at the marble Aphrodite, then at the girl beneath it. “We are born of the flesh, we are flesh, and all our affections and instincts partake of it.”
“I do not agree with you at all,” Emma answered, with some warmth. “We are born of the spirit: that is the reality; the flesh is only an accident, if a necessary accident. When we allow it to master us, then our troubles begin.”
“Perhaps; but it is rather a pervading accident for many of us. In short, it makes up our world, and we cannot escape it. While we are of it the most refined among us must follow its routine – more or less. A day may come when that routine will be different, and our desires, aims, and objects will vary with it, but it is not here or now. Everything has its season, Miss Levinger, and it is useless to try to escape from the facts of life, for at last in one shape or another they overtake us, who, strive as we may, can very rarely defy our natures.”
Emma made no answer, though she did not look convinced, and for a while they remained silent.
“My father tells me that you are coming to see us,” she said at last.
“Yes; he kindly asked me. Do you wish me to come?”
“Of course I do,” she answered, colouring faintly. “It will be a great change to see a stranger staying at Monk’s Lodge. But I am afraid that you will find it very dull; we are quite alone, at this time of year there is nothing on earth to do, unless you like birdnesting. There are plenty of wild fowl about, and I have rather a good collection of eggs.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that I shall amuse myself,” he answered. “Don’t you think that we had better be going back? They must have had enough of each other by this time.”
Making no answer, Emma rose and walked across the conservatory, Henry following her. At the door, acting on a sudden impulse, she stopped suddenly and said, “You do really mean to come to Monk’s Lodge, do you not, Captain Graves?” And she looked up into his face.
“If you wish it,” he answered in a low voice.
“I have said that I do wish it,” she replied, and turning led the way into the drawing-room.
* * *Meanwhile another conversation had taken place in the library, where Sir Reginald and Mr. Levinger were seated.
“I think that you are to be very much congratulated on this engagement, Graves,” said his companion. “Of course the young man is not perfect: he has faults, and obvious ones; but your daughter knows what she is about, and understands him, and altogether in the present state of affairs it is a great thing for you.”
“Not for me – not for me,” answered Sir Reginald sadly; “I seem to have neither interests nor energies left, and so far as I am concerned literally I care for nothing. I have lived my life, Levinger, and I am fading away. That last blow of poor Reginald’s death has killed me, although I do not die at once. The only earthly desire which remains to me is to provide, if possible, for the welfare of my family. In furtherance of that end this afternoon I condescended even to get the best possible terms of settlement out of young Milward. Twenty years ago I should have been ashamed to do such a thing, but age and poverty have hardened me. Besides, I know my man. He blows hot to-day, a month hence he may blow cold; and as it is quite on the cards that he and Ellen will not pull together very well in married life, and I have nothing to leave her, I am anxious that she should be properly provided for. By the way, have you spoken to Henry about these mortgages?”
“Yes, I explained the position to him on Saturday night. It seemed to upset him a good deal.”
“I don’t wonder at it, I am sure. You have behaved very kindly in this matter, Levinger. Had it been in anybody else’s hands I suppose that we should all have been in the workhouse by now. But, frankly, I don’t see the end of it. The money is not yours – it is your daughter’s fortune, or the greater part of it – and you can’t go on being generous with other people’s fortunes. As it is, she stands to lose heavily on the investment, and the property is sinking in value very day. It is very well to talk of our old friendship and of your gratitude to me. Perhaps you should be grateful, and no doubt I have pulled you out of some nasty scrapes in bygone days, when you were the Honourable – ”
“Don’t mention the name, Graves!” said Levinger, striking his stick fiercely on the floor: “that man is dead; never mention his name again to me or to anybody else.”
“As you like,” answered Sir Reginald, smiling. “I was only going to repeat that you cannot continue to be grateful on your daughter’s money, and if you take your remedy Rosham must go to the hammer after all these generations. I shall be dead first, but it breaks my heart to think of it.” And the old man covered his face with his thin hand and groaned aloud.
“Don’t distress yourself, Graves,” said Levinger gently; “I have hinted to you before that there is a possible way of escape.”
“You mean if Henry were to take a fancy to your daughter, and she were to reciprocate it?”