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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.
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
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