“You told me a good many things, Ellen, most of which were more or less disagreeable.”
“I told you that Emma Levinger was half in love with you, Henry.”
“Yes, I know you did; and I didn’t believe you.”
“Well, perhaps you will believe me now, when I say that she is wholly in love with you—as much in love as ever woman was with man.”
“No,” said Henry, shaking his head; “I don’t wish to contradict, but I must decline to believe that.”
“Was there ever so obstinate a person! Listen now, and if you are not satisfied of the truth of what I say, ask mother, ask Mr. Levinger, ask the girl herself.” And word for word she repeated the passionate confession that had been wrung from poor Emma’s agony. “Now will you believe me?” she said.
“It seems that I must,” he answered, after a pause; “though I think it quite possible that Miss Levinger’s words sprang from her excitement, and did not mean what they appeared to convey. I think also, Ellen, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for repeating to me what slipped from her in a moment of mental strain, and thus putting her in a false position. Supposing that the doctor, or Joan Haste, were to tell you every foolish thing which I may have uttered during my delirium, what would you think of them, I wonder? Still, I dare say that I led you on and you meant it kindly; but after this I am sure I do not know how I shall dare to look that poor girl in the face. And now I think I am a little tired. Would you call Mrs. Gillingwater or some one?”
Ellen left her brother’s room in a state of irritation which was not the less intense because it was suppressed. She felt that her coup had not come off—that she had even made matters worse instead of better. She had calculated, if Henry’s affections were not touched, that at least his vanity would be flattered, by the tale of Emma’s dramatic exhibition of feeling: indeed, for aught she knew, either or both of these conjectures might be correct; but she was obliged to confess that he had given no sign by which she could interpret his mind in any such sense. The signs were all the other way, indeed, for he had taken the opportunity to lecture her on her breach of confidence, and it angered her to know that the reproof was deserved. In truth, she was so desperately anxious to bring about this marriage as soon as possible, that she had allowed herself to be carried away, with the result, as she now saw, of hindering her own object.
Ellen had a very imperfect appreciation of her brother’s character. She believed him to be cold and pharisaical, and under this latter head she set down his notions concerning the contraction of marriages that chanced to be satisfactory from a money point of view. It did not enter into her estimate of him to presume that he might possess a delicacy of feeling which was lacking in her own nature; that the idea of being thrust into marriage with any woman in order to relieve the pecuniary necessities of his family, might revolt him to the extent of causing a person, whom perhaps he would otherwise have loved, to become almost distasteful to him. She did not understand even that the premature and unsought declaration of affection for himself on the part of the lady who was designed by others to be his wife, might produce a somewhat similar effect. And yet a very slight consideration of the principles of human nature would have taught her that this was likely to be the case.
These were solutions of Henry’s conduct that did not suggest themselves to Ellen, or, if they did, she dismissed them contemptuously in her search for a more plausible explanation. Soon she found one which seemed to explain everything: Joan was the explanation. Nothing escaped Ellen’s quick eyes, and she had noticed that Joan also was distressed at Henry’s danger. She had marked, moreover, how he clung to this girl, refusing to be parted from her even in his delirium, and with what tenderness she nursed him; and she knew how often men fall in love with women who tend them in sickness.