CHAPTER XXXIII.

I WONDER IF I EVER LOVED YOU UNTIL THIS MOMENT.

It was a rather tedious evening for Ella Linton after Phyllis had taken her departure. Why on earth, she asked herself, had she been such a fool as to lay out her plans to have this lonely evening? Then she remembered that two of her guests had meant to stay until Wednesday morning, but had received a letter necessitating their departure for town on Monday night. But this fact should not have condemned her to a solitary evening, Ella reflected. She should have been thoughtful enough to change her own plans to correspond with the change in the plans of her guests. A nice, quiet, contemplative evening beside the still waters may suit the requirements of some temperaments, but it was not just what Ella regarded as most satisfying to her mood of the hour. It was a long time since she had spent a lonely evening, and although she had now rather more food for contemplation than at any other period of her life, she did not feel contemplative.

Then it suddenly occurred to her to ask herself why, after all, should she be condemned to a contemplative evening? What was there to hinder her taking a train to town after she had dined? Once in town she knew that all prospect of contemplation would be at an end.

She rang her bell and told her maid that she had changed her mind in regard to staying another night at The Mooring; she would leave after dinner; wasn’t there a train about nine from Maidenhead?

It was when she was about to go down to dinner that she heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel walk. Was it possible that her newly made plans might also be deranged? Was this a fresh visitor arriving by a fly from Maidenhead—she saw that the vehicle was a fly.

There was no one in the room to hear the cry of delight that she gave when she saw Herbert at the porch of the house, the driver having deposited his portmanteau and Gladstone bag at his feet.

He had returned to her—he, whom she fancied to be far away; he who had forsaken her, as she thought, as she feared, as she (at times) hoped, forever. He had returned to her. There was no one now to stand between them. He was all her own.

She flung off the dress which she was wearing,—it was her plainest evening gown,—and had actually got on another, a lovely one that she had never yet worn, before her maid arrived at her dressing room.

“Louise,” she said, “send a message downstairs to show Mr. Courtland to his room, and mention that he will dine with me. Come back at once. I have got so far in my dressing without you; I can’t go much further, however.”

In a quarter of an hour she was surveying herself in her mirror just as Phyllis had been doing an hour sooner; only on her face was a very different expression from that which Phyllis had worn. Her eyes were brilliant as they never had been before, except once; her face was not pale, but full of soft color, as if she were standing beneath the shadow of a mighty rose-leaf with the sunlight above. Her neck and arms were of the same delicate tinge. Her smile she gave as she surveyed herself was a smile of triumph, very different from the expression on poor Phyllis’ features as she flung her hat across the room.

“Mine, mine, mine!” she whispered, nodding with a smile at the lovely thing so full of warm life that faced her with a smile. “He is mine—he has come back to me, I will keep him. I shall be able to keep him, I think.”

She had scarcely entered the drawing room before he was beside her, and he had scarcely entered before a servant announced that dinner was served. They were seated at the dinner table before they had exchanged half a dozen words—before she had time to ask him why he had returned.

And at the table, with a servant at each end, what could they say?

Well, she gave in detail, with the accuracy of a railway time-table, the hours of the departure of the various guests, down to the last departed guest, who chanced to be Miss Ayrton. Yes, she was obliged to go up to town to be present at that important function which was to be given in the presence of Royalty, though, she, Mrs. Linton, was convinced that Phyllis would much prefer remaining in the midst of that exquisite quietude which seemed to be found only up the river. She had wanted her dear Phyllis to stay until the morrow, but poor Phyllis’ sense of duty had been, as unfortunately it always was, too great for her inclination.

“Unfortunately?” said Herbert.

“Did I say unfortunately?” she cried. “How funny! I meant of course, unfortunately for her friends—for myself in this particular case. But, after all, we had a delightful week together. It has done us all good—even you.”

“Why the ‘even’?” he asked, with a laugh.

“Oh, well, because you are not expected to feel the fatigues of a London season. And then you must remember that you had a yachting cruise which must have done you a world of good,” she added, with a smile born of the mood which was on her—a mood of joy and laughter and daring. She felt that she could say anything she pleased to say to him now; she could have referred with a laugh to his running away on that strange cruise of his.

“Yes,” he said, “it did me a great deal of good.”

He spoke slowly, and her quick ear detected a tone of gravity in his voice. What could he mean? Oh, yes.

“I hope that that last phase of the mine will soon be settled,” said she. “It was that which curtailed your cruise, you will remember.”

“I certainly do remember.”

“I hope the business will soon be settled one way or another. I don’t think this running to Paris so frequently is good for Stephen. Haven’t you noticed how poorly he has been looking of late?”

“He didn’t seem to me to be particularly robust. But I think that he pulled himself together while he was here. Oh, yes! another week will see us free from this business.”

“And with an extra million or so in your pockets.”

“Well, something in that way.”

That was how they talked while the servants were present—about business and money and matters that may be discussed in the presence of servants.

Then they went together into the drawing room. It was not yet dark enough for the candles to be lighted. The exquisite summer twilight was hanging over the river and the banks opposite, wooded from the water’s edge to the summit. It was the hour of delicate blue touched with pink about the borders. The hour of purple and silver stars had not yet come.

She threw open one of the windows on its hinges, and in a moment the room was flooded with the perfume of the roses of the garden. She stood in the opening of the window and seemed to drink in the garden scents before they floated into the room. Then from some secret nestling place in the dark depths of the clipped hedge there came the even-song of a blackbird. It was replied to from the distance; and the silence that followed only seemed to be silence. It was a silence made vocal by the bending of a thousand notes—all musical. The blackbirds, the thrushes, the robins made up a chorus of harmony as soothing to the soul as silence. Then came the cooings of the wood pigeons. The occasional shriek of a peacock was the only note out of harmony with the feeling breathed by the twilight.

She stood at the open window, her back turned to him, for some time. He felt slightly embarrassed. Her attitude somehow suggested to him an imprisonment; he was captured; she was standing between him and the open air; she was barring his passage.

Suddenly she turned. With her movement there seemed to float into the room a great breath of rose-scent. It was only that the light showed him more clearly at that moment the glowing whiteness of her neck and shoulders and arms.

“Why have you come back?” she cried, almost piteously.

“Surely you know why, Ella,” said he.

“I know nothing: a man is one thing one day and quite the opposite the next day. How can I know anything of what is in your mind to-day—in your heart to-day?”

“I came back thinking to find her here still—I fancied that you said she would stay until you were returning to-morrow.”

“You came back for her?”

“I came back to see her—I find that I cannot live without seeing her.”

“You have only found that out since you left here yesterday morning?”

“Only since I left here. I told you that I was not sure of myself. That is why I went away.”

“You went away to make sure of yourself, and now you return to make sure of her?”

“Ah, if I could but think that! If I could only be as sure of her as I am of myself. But what am I that I should dare to hope? Oh, she is above all womankind—a crown of girlhood! What am I that I should ask to wear this crown of girlhood?”

“You are a king of men, Bertie. Only for the king of men is such a crown.”

She laughed as she stood looking at him as she leaned against the half open door of the window, one hand being on the framework above her head.

“Ella, you know her!” he cried, facing her. She began to swing gently to the extent of an inch or two, still leaning on the edge of the hinged window. She was looking at him through half-closed, curious eyes. “Ella, you know her—she has always been your friend; tell me if I should speak to her or if I should go back to the work that I have begun in New Guinea.”

“Would you be guided by me, Bertie?” she asked, suddenly ceasing her movement with the window and going very close to him indeed—so close that he could feel the gracious warmth of her face and bare neck and shoulders. “Would you be guided by me, I wonder?”

“Have I not been guided by you up to the present, Ella?” said he. “Should I be here to-night if it were not for your goodness? I laughed some time ago—how long ago it seems!—when you told me—you said it was your dearest wish—I did not then believe it possible——”

“And do you fancy that I believed it possible?” she asked, with some sadness in her voice.

“Great Heavens! Ella, do you mean to tell me that you——Oh, no, it is impossible! You knew me.”

“I fancied that I knew you, Bertie. I fancied that I knew myself.”

“Ella, Ella, for God’s sake don’t let us drift again. Have you no recollection of that terrible time through which we both passed—that ordeal by fire. Ella, we were plucked from the fire—she plucked us from the very fire of hell itself—oh, don’t let us drift in that direction again!”

He had walked away from her. He was beginning to recall too vividly the old days, under the influence of her gracious presence so close to him—not so close as it had been, but still close enough to bring back old memories.

“Come here and stand beside me, Bertie,” said she.

After a moment’s hesitation he went to her, slowly, not with the rapture of a lover—not with the old passion trembling in his hands, on his lips.

He went to her.

She put her hands behind her and looked at him in the face for a long time. The even-songs of the birds mixed with the scent of the roses; the blue shadow of the twilight was darkening over the trees at the foot of her garden.

“Do you remember the oleanders?” she said. “I never breathe in such a twilight as this without seeing before me the oleanders outlined against its blue. It was very sweet at that old place on the Arno.”

“Ella, Ella—for God’s sake——”

“You told me that terrible secret of your life—that you loved me. I wonder if I knew what it meant, Bertie? I told you that I loved you: that was more terrible still. I wonder if you knew what that meant, Bertie?”

He did not speak.

The bird’s songs outside were becoming softer and more intermittent.

She gave a sudden cry as if stung with pain, and started away from the window. She threw herself down on the couch, burying her face in the pillows—he could see through the dim room the whiteness of her arms. She was breathing convulsively; but she was not sobbing.

He remained beside the open window. He, too, was not breathing so regularly as he had breathed a short time before.

He heard the sigh that came from her as she raised her head from the pillow.

Then she said:

“I wonder if you ever really loved me, Bertie.”

“Oh, my God!”

“I wonder if you ever loved me; and I wonder if I ever loved you until this moment.”

There was a silence. Outside there was a little whisper of moving wings, but no voice of bird.

There was a silence, and out of it a low voice cried softly, softly:

“Bertie, Bertie, my love, come to me.”

He took a step toward her, a second step—and then he stood, rigid, breathless, for he heard another soft voice that said:

“His honor is the honor of his mother and his sister, upon which no stain must come.”

He heard that voice, and with a cry he covered his face with his hands, and turning, fled through the open window into the garden.

She lay there on her couch, that lovely white creature who had been saved so as by fire. There are two fires: the one is the fire that consumes the heart until all that is left of it is the dust of ashes; the other is the fire that purifies the soul even unto its salvation; and yet both fires burn alike, so that men and women know not which is burning within them.

Did she know that she was saved so as by fire?

She laughed as though he could still hear her; but after her laugh there came a few moments of overwhelming bitterness that sent her on her knees by the side of the couch in self-abasement.

“Kill me—kill me, O God!” she wailed. “Kill me, for I am not fit to live!”

But she was spared.

After a time she found strength to rise. She seemed surprised to find that the room was in darkness. She struck a light, and in a few minutes a dozen candles were flaring round the walls; and then she went mechanically to close the window. One side she had just fastened when it seemed to her that she heard the sound of voices approaching. She listened, her head bent forward through the side of the window that remained unclosed.

Yes, their voices were sounding clearly through the still night—his voice and—what trick was being played upon her by her hearing? Phyllis’ voice? How could it be Phyllis’ voice? Phyllis had returned to London. Oh, it was some trick! Her nerves were playing some trick upon her—they were out of order, they were beyond her control. Phyllis’ voice——Great Heavens! it was Phyllis herself who was walking through the garden by his side!

Ella stood at the open side of the window staring out at them. They stood at the foot of the half dozen steps that lead up to the window. Phyllis laughed,—was there a trace of mockery in her laugh?—but he was silent.

“I don’t wonder at your fancying that I am a ghost, Ella,” cried the girl. “I feel that I deserve to be treated as discourteously as most poor ghosts are treated when they visit their friends. You never yet heard of a ghost being asked to stay to dinner, did you, Mr. Courtland? But a ghost may fairly claim to be asked to enter the house of her dearest friend, especially after a double railway journey.”

Ella had not moved from her place at the open space of the window while Phyllis was speaking, but the moment that the girl’s laugh sounded, she too laughed. She ran down the steps and put her arms about Phyllis, kissing her on the face.

“This is more than the most exacting of ghosts could reasonable look for,” cried Phyllis. “Oh, Ella! I’m so glad that I followed my own impulse and came back to you. I thought you were here all alone—how could I know that Mr. Courtland would return in the meantime to complete his visit?—and when I looked out on the dust and the smoke of the town and thought of this—this—this exquisite stillness,—you can just hear the water of the weir,—this garden, this scent of roses, but chiefly when I thought of you sitting in your loneliness——Well, is it any wonder that I am here now?—you implored of me to stay, you know, Ella.”

“It is no wonder indeed, being what you are—a good angel, my good angel, Phyllis,” cried the woman. “Oh, dearest, you are welcome! Why did you leave me Phyllis? Why did you leave me? Oh, the good angels can never be trusted. You should not have left me to myself, dear. I am only a woman. Ah, you don’t yet know what a woman is. That is the worst of angels and men; they don’t know what a woman is. Come into the house, Phyllis. Come in, Herbert. How did you manage to meet?”

“You know I went out to the garden——” said the man.

“Yes; I knew that—you left me alone,” said the woman, and she gave a laugh.

“I strolled from the garden to the road—I had to ask the people at the Old Bell to keep a room for me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And just outside the inn I came face to face with Miss Ayrton’s fly. Miss Ayrton was good enough to get out and walk with me, sending the fly on with her maid. I told the man to wait in order to take my portmanteau to the inn. It must be at the hall door now. We entered by the garden gate.”

“Nothing could be simpler,” said Ella. They had by this time walked up the steps into the drawing room. “Nothing could be simpler.” Then she turned to Phyllis. “But how did you contrive to evade the great function to-night?”

“Papa did not feel very well,” said Phyllis, “and I know that he was only too glad of an excuse to stay at home.”

“And you forsook your sick father to come to me? Oh, my dear Phyllis, what have you done?”

“If you ask me in confidence I should say that papa is not quite so ill as to stand in need of a nurse,” she whispered. “Oh, no! Make your mind easy. I have neglected no duty in coming to you.”

“Except your duty to yourself; you could not have had time to take any dinner at home. I shall have you a servants’ hall supper in ten minutes.”

“Please get nothing for me. I had a capital sort of dinner at home. But I should dearly like a cup of tea.”

“It will be ready for you the moment you return from taking off your hat. I’ll go up with you to your room; Mr. Courtland knows that even I make myself at home in this house. He will pardon us.”

“I mustn’t keep the fly waiting for my portmanteau,” said Mr. Courtland. “If you will allow me, I shall look to it now, and say good-night.”

“What! Oh, you mustn’t think of running off in this way,” said Ella. “What reason had you for returning at all if you run off at this hour?”

“It is getting quite late. I mustn’t keep the good people of the Old Bell up on my account,” said he. “Besides, a man represents a certain inharmonious element upon such an occasion as this. Miss Ayrton returned expecting to be with you alone. I know the disabilities of a man quite well. Yes, I must say good-night.”

“Nonsense! Pray talk to him, Phyllis,” cried Ella. “You may make him amenable to reason.”

But Phyllis stood mute with her hand on the handle of the door; she only smiled, and there is neither reason nor argument in a smile.

“Good-night!” said he.

“Oh, well, if you really have nothing to say to either of us,—to either Phyllis or me,—you had better go, I suppose,” said Ella, giving him her hand, but she did not look at him in the face while his hand was touching hers.

Curiously enough, neither did Phyllis look at him as was her wont.

And so he left them that night.