“Do you think I could fail?” said Ella, turning upon him her sweet candid countenance. “I will be there.”
Was Max Bray ashamed of his face, that he held it down as he hurried from the house? Perhaps not; but he was evidently much excited, for he muttered half aloud, as if running over certain plans that he had arranged for a particular end.
“Could it be right? Was it all true?” Ella asked herself, when alone in her bedroom, with the sense of a deep unutterable misery crushing her; and once more she read the letters she had retained.
“O yes, it was too true, too true! But what was she about to do? To accompany the man she mistrusted, the man she dreaded? He had been trusted, though, before now; and of late, too, his conduct had been so different—he had even seemed to dislike her. Still, under any other circumstances, she would not have gone; but at such a time, in answer to such an appeal, how could she stay?”
Her brain was in a whirl, and she could not reason quietly. She only knew now the depth of love she felt, and urged by that love, everything else seemed little and of no import.
Hours must have passed, when, after sending twice to Mrs Marter, she received that lady’s gracious permission to wait upon her.
“I should have sent for you before long—as soon as I felt that I could bear it, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Marter—“to demand some explanation of your receiving visitors early in the morning without my consent. I understand that somewhere about seven o’clock—”
“I believe the clock had struck nine,” said Ella quietly.
“Seven, or eight, or nine, or ten, it’s all the same!” exclaimed Mrs Marter angrily. “Pray, Miss Bedford, what did Mr Bray want here this morning? Was it supposed that I should not know of the visit?”
“Mr Bray came to tell me of the illness of a very dear friend,” said Ella pitifully; “and now I come to ask your consent to absent myself for a few days.”