CHAPTER III.
The wind blew fiercer than ever as Embrance turned out of the broad avenue into a side path, and found herself face to face with Horace Meade.
“Good afternoon, Miss Clemon.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Meade.”
She put her hand into his for a second; he had thrown away his cigar and turned to walk by her side. “How fast you walk,” he said; “I have been watching you for the last three minutes.”
“I haven’t much time to lose,” said Embrance, apologetically, “as a rule. The park gate will shut soon.”
“Yes, to be sure. Do you like the Regent’s-park?”
“Very much; don’t you?”
“Oh yes, immensely, but somehow I never come here. No, indeed, I don’t,” in answer to her look of amusement; “I came to-day because I thought there was a chance of meeting you. There is something that I want to talk to you about. Do you know that you are the most difficult person in the world to approach?”
“I should not have thought so,” said Embrance, with a smile. “I think I can guess what you are going to tell me.”
He shook his head: “I’m afraid you can’t.”
“You must not suppose that she means all she says; only give her time and she will take your advice.”
“Ah, yes; Joan, you mean?”
It struck Embrance that he was very absent and unlike himself, but she had broached the subject now, and she felt bound to go on with it. “She told me that she was very sorry that she had been ungracious about some suggestion that you made. I’m quite sure that she would not willingly say anything to hurt you.”
“I’m quite sure she would not,” assented Horace, “she is much too kind-hearted.”
“And,” continued Embrance, clasping her hands firmly in her muff, “I wanted to say (we needn’t talk about it again), if you think that it would be better for her to go down to Doveton, I will try and persuade her to go; it would not be for long, perhaps.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Horace, absently; “but don’t you see, Miss Clemon, the question is not altogether about Joan’s peace of mind, but yours?”
They had reached the gate, and turned into a dreary piece of “outer circle.”
“Mine?” exclaimed Embrance, growing scarlet in the dim twilight; “there is no occasion to talk about me.”
“I beg your pardon, I have a great deal to say. Do you suppose I don’t see what you are doing for my cousin, how you are helping her and teaching her, and taking on your shoulders the responsibilities that her own family ought to bear?”
“I had not looked upon it from that point of view,” said Embrance, dryly.
“Now you are angry at what I have said; I can’t help it, I can’t hold my tongue any longer. Joan knows what I think, but perhaps she has not told you all I said; she is a dear little girl. Don’t imagine that I am throwing any blame on her, but she shouldn’t have come to London!”
“I have tried to do my best for her,” said Embrance, in a broken voice.
“Miss Clemon,” cried Horace, “you must think that I am behaving like a brute! Do you suppose I don’t know that? You have done her, and are doing her, all the good in the world.”
“I thought that you did not trust me,” explained Embrance, simply. “I’m so glad I was wrong; indeed, Joan is like a younger sister to me; don’t try to separate us.”
The light of a feeble gaslight fell upon her face as she spoke; her eyes were raised pleadingly to his.
“You have mistaken me altogether,” he said, hurriedly, “but I couldn’t expect it to be otherwise. You must not misunderstand me again. Embrance, I know I am taking you by surprise; I must say it. I love you. I am miserable when I am away from you. Don’t, don’t turn away!”
A gust of wind came roaring down the road; she did not heed it. She walked quietly by his side, stricken dumb with great joy. She did not deceive herself for one instant, it was too late for that, she liked him too well. She could not shut her heart to the truth, any more than she could shut her ears to his words. Alas, alas! where were all her plans for Joan? Did Joan love him? In the darkness of the badly lighted road, she seemed to see Joan’s beautiful face, and to hear her say, “Embrance, have patience with me. Don’t think ill of me! You are the only one who has patience with me!”
“My poor dear, I will do my best for you,” she thought, as a feeling of great tenderness towards Joan came over her. She had no answer ready for Horace Meade. Ah! he was strong, and did not want her pity.
“What shall I say? What shall I do?” she cried at last, in desperation. It seemed as if hours had passed since he had spoken the words that made this great difference in her life.
“Have I distressed you? I can’t help it. Tell me, won’t you listen to me?”
“I, I am sorry,” she faltered, looking at him with a tearful glance.
“I didn’t know. I had thought——” She stopped; Joan’s name must not be mentioned now if she loved him; if—nay, she must love him, and he would find it out by-and-by; he could not but be fond of her. Only give them time; he was vexed with her for the moment; it would all come right. Nevertheless it was hard to give him her answer. “Mr. Meade,” she said, speaking more firmly now, “it is very good of you. I thank you very much. I can’t listen to you; it is better not.”
“Are you engaged to that man who went to New Zealand?”
“My cousin? No, certainly not; why should you think so?”
“Joan said something about it, that is partly why I determined to know my fate at once.”
“You must have misunderstood her altogether. When did you see her last?”
“About a fortnight ago. I can’t remember,” he replied, impatiently. “I believe your whole thoughts are wrapped up in her.”
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to vex you. Can’t we be friends, at least?”
Up to the present moment she had indeed been thinking how she could best make a reconciliation possible between him and Joan. With a sharp pang it struck her that perhaps after all she was in the wrong.
“Listen,” he said; “I am in earnest, in bitter earnest. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Embrance.
“Thank you. I was sure of that, at least. I care so much that I can’t stay here any longer, coming to see you like a stranger, and having no right to help you in any way whatever. I have seen enough in the last few months to guess a little what your work is. No; let me say it out to the end. Before I knew you I fancied that you were selfish and indifferent. Heaven knows how wrong I was! If I can’t win your love, it is my own fault. Embrance, don’t decide in a hurry. Think it over. I love you. Give me a chance.”
They had reached the crowded thoroughfare. Gaslights were flaring; the road was thronged with cabs and carts; the people were pushing along the pavement, too busy to notice the quiet couple, or to observe that the plain girl in an ulster had a white face, and that the lines of her mouth were set with pain and suffering. Across the street, in a few minutes, they were in a dreary square. Here there were no loiterers. A murky grey sky; black trees, flinging their gaunt arms to the chimney pots; rows of melancholy stone houses, with carved heads, placidly unconcerned, gazing down from the lintels.
In vain she strove to find words to tell him her perplexity. How could she accept this gift from his hands, believing as she did that the child at home was longing to make friends with him? How should she return and look her friend in the face, saying, “I have stolen your lover”?
“Embrance, be patient with me,” Joan had said. “Embrance, don’t give me up.”
Then she turned and put her hand into Horace’s. Her fingers were cold as ice, but they did not tremble. “I can’t; don’t ask me,” she cried under her breath.
He strode by her side in silence. An empty cab came rattling round the corner. “Stop it,” whispered Embrance. He obeyed her, opened the door, and told the man where to drive. He lifted his hat, standing on one side, and waiting for the cab to drive off. At last she raised her eyes to his. “Forgive me,” she whispered; “do forgive me. God bless you, Horace.”
He turned away without a word. What should he say more than he had said? She could not love him. There was nothing more to be done. She was no coquette to say “No” when she meant “Yes.” Fate was hard on him. The one woman in the whole world whom he longed to call his wife had rejected his love. He must bear his grief as best he could.
Embrance sank back into a dark corner of the cab, shuddering as she recalled his look of misery. She had none of the spirit of a heroine or a martyr to support her; she had tried, struggling against her own self, to act uprightly by one friend; suppose that her very love of honesty had caused her to be cruel to another? Now that it was all too late, she longed to have the last five minutes over again. No, a thousand times, no! Let her only get home and have time to think, and she would leave off being sorry. Whether rightly or wrongly, she had done what seemed honest and fair; she would not reproach herself, and he would soon get over it. “Men forget sooner than women,” she reflected, falling back on one of her aunt’s numerous truisms. Then she almost laughed in scorn at her own insincerity. “You don’t believe it; you know he loves you, and your ridiculous behaviour will make him think worse of all womanhood from this day forth.” “Oh! I hope not. I hope not!” she sobbed aloud, with her head against the cushion of the cab.
The sound of her own voice roused her to the consciousness that she was getting very near home; she sat up, dried her eyes and smoothed her hair. It would not do to alarm Joan; what had happened this afternoon must be kept a secret from her at all events. She had her own latch-key. She opened the door and stole upstairs. The landlady and her daughter were chatting in the back parlour, but Embrance did not want to exchange civilities with them just now. Outside her own door she paused for a moment, then opened it, saying: “Well, Joan, are you waiting for your tea?”
There was no answer. The lamp was lighted, the tablecloth was laid, but Joan was not there. Her chair was in a corner by the window; there were no signs of her drawing or scraps of millinery about.
“Joan!” cried Embrance, nervously. “Where are you?”
No answer. She ran to the door of the next room and looked in; all was dark and silent. “I suppose it is not so late as I thought,” she said to herself. “She will be in soon, I daresay.”
She took off her bonnet, and sat down to wait with a book, but she could not fix her attention. She was very, very tired, and rather lonely; she did wish that Joan would come. The longing to speak to somebody was so great, that after a short time she put out her hand and rang the bell. Annie came running upstairs at the summons; her eyes were round with excitement; she hardly waited to hear Miss Clemon’s question.
“Did Miss Fulloch leave any message for me when she went out?”
“No, miss; she’s been gone ever since ten o’clock, half an hour after you left. I heard the door bang, and I said to myself, ‘What’s that?’ And it was Miss Fulloch; she had on her new bonnet, with the pink feather, that she was making.”
“Never mind the bonnet, Annie; did she say when she would be in to tea?”
“No, miss; and I expect she won’t be back; she took her bag.”
“Very well. I will wait half an hour, and then, please, bring tea.”
“There’s something wrong upstairs,” was Annie’s report in the kitchen. “Miss Clemon looks as if she see a ghost. She isn’t half the lady she was.”
Seven o’clock struck; eight o’clock, nine o’clock, and no Joan appeared. Embrance drank a cup of tea, but she could not eat anything. In vain she told herself that very likely Mrs. Rakely had made one of her flying visits to London, and had persuaded Joan to spend the day with her; it was absurd to be anxious; of course she would be back directly; nevertheless she could not read, write, or rest. The late postman brought a letter for Miss Clemon. Annie, having studied the envelope on the way upstairs, saw that the postmark was Brighton.
Embrance took the letter. The handwriting, firm and neat, was quite strange to her. She opened it hastily.
“Dear old Embrance” (it began). “I had not the courage to say good-bye to you this morning, but I told you that I had a secret, and I think you guessed it; you are so clever. I was afraid you would be disappointed, you meant me to be a painter’s wife, didn’t you? but I was happily married to Alfred Brownhill this morning, and we are spending our honeymoon at Brighton. We must come and see you before we go to Doveton. Alfred sends his kind regards; he remembers you quite well. You will be glad to hear that I am so happy; I hope you won’t miss me too much, you busy old dear.—Your loving, Joan Brownhill. P.S. Alfred likes the bonnet very much. He wrote the address; were you mystified?”
A little bunch of sweet smelling violets dropped out of the letter and scented the room—Joan always loved flowers. She liked everything that was pleasant and good to look upon.
Alfred Brownhill! he was a staid, middle-aged man, with a comfortable home and a prosperous income. No wonder that old Mr. Fulloch had wished for the marriage. He would be surprised, too, and would wonder that his grand-daughter had not returned to his roof, as she was prepared to follow his advice at last. But Embrance saw clearly enough that Joan would never have done that. A runaway wedding, and a triumphant return to Doveton, would be much more to her taste. She looked at Joan’s unused cup and saucer on the table, and she shivered as she realised the truth; her friend would never come back. While she had been rejecting the pleadings of a good man who loved her, Joan had perhaps been telling her husband that “Embrance wished her to marry a painter.”
“I will write to him,” she said, turning to the little table where she had so often sat when he and Joan talked together over the fire. She never swerved from her intention; he had been cruelly treated; he might not care to accept her apology, that did not matter. She must see him once more, and explain to him that she had been deceived—mistaken, that was a more gracious word. She would write no more than she could help.
“Dear Mr. Meade,—Please come and see me. I have made a mistake.—Yours truly, Embrance Clemon.”
She knew his address, she had written to him before, asking him to do various little acts of kindness for Joan. Once she had been to tea at his rooms, with Mrs. Rakely and Joan, he had shown her his sketches and asked her opinion about his pictures. It was all long ago. It had been a bitterly cold day, Joan had caught a bad sore throat, and was ill for a week afterwards; she had been an impatient invalid, and Horace had called to inquire after her very often, and had left fruit and flowers.
Embrance could no longer endure the loneliness of the little parlour; she missed Joan terribly, her laugh and her many coaxing ways. She longed for air; it was a good excuse for posting the letter herself. As she tied her bonnet-strings before the glass, she shrank back aghast at the sight of her pale face. She put on a thick veil and threw a shawl over her shoulders; she would feel happier when the letter was once in the pillar-box. A hundred times she had been up and down the crooked staircase in the dark; to-night, it might be that she was tired, or that her eyes were full of tears, but her foot slipped, she clutched instinctively at the banister, missed it, and fell down into the darkness below.
So it came about that the letter to Horace Meade was left unposted till the following morning.
Some days passed before Embrance could leave her room; the doctor, whom the landlady had summoned in her fright, said that she had sprained her ankle badly, and ordered perfect rest. The people in the house were good to the solitary invalid; the first-floor lodger brought her knitting and a great many dull stories of her own youth, and experiences of sprained ankles and broken limbs, and came and sat by her sofa, while the landlady and Annie were unceasing in their attentions. Some of Embrance’s pupils called, and Joan wrote sheets of sympathy, crossed and recrossed. Her husband sent his kind regards and hoped that Miss Clemon would come down to Doveton and stay there till she was quite convalescent. However, Embrance refused the invitation, she would rather stay at home for the present; later on, she would like to visit Joan.
Mrs. Brownhill, in the snug breakfast-room in her new home, fretted a little over this refusal; then she recovered her spirits and laid plans for summer excursions; it would be better to have Embrance, after all, when the roses were in bloom. Alfred Brownhill was very much in love with his young wife, and considered her interest in the welfare of her sick friend the prettiest trait of character imaginable.
“Poor old Embrance,” exclaimed Joan, with her hand in his; “I should die of loneliness in that pokey room all by myself, but she has so much strength of will; I don’t believe she minds a bit. I shall never be like her!”
“Heaven forbid!” murmured he devoutly. He was prepared to be kind to the lady for his wife’s sake, but he had a virtuous horror of a strong-minded woman wrapped up in herself, and his principles (which he held sacred) did not allow him to disguise his feelings.
In the meantime Embrance recovered slowly and went back to her work, but she received no answer to her letter.
(To be concluded.)