“I wonder if she will always go on like this after we are married?” he thought to himself. “Perhaps she’ll get worse. What’s that about a green and a dry tree? She’s dry enough anyway when she likes, and sometimes I think that I am pretty green. By George! if I believed that she always meant to keep up this game of snubs and sharp answers, fond as I am of her, I think I would cut the show before it is too late. There are a good many things that I don’t like about it; I sometimes suspect that the whole set of them are pretty well broke, and I don’t want to marry into a bankrupt family. Then that fellow Henry is an infernal prig, not but what I would be careful to see precious little of him. I wonder why Ellen is so anxious that he should take up with the Levinger girl? From all I can find out the father is a disreputable old customer, who made a low marriage, and whom everybody declines to know. It is shady, deuced shady,” and, filled with these gloomy musings, Edward made his way into the dining-room to lunch.
Here Ellen, who in the interval had bethought herself that she was showing a little too much of the iron hand, received him graciously enough: indeed, she was so affectionate and pleasant in her manner, that before the afternoon was over Edward’s doubts were dispelled, and he forgot that he had that morning contemplated a step so serious as the breaking off of his engagement.
However coarsely he might express himself, Ellen had wit enough to see that Edward’s advice was of the soundest. Certainly it was desirable that Joan Haste should be got rid of, but how was this to be brought about? She could not tell her to go, nor could she desire Mrs. Gillingwater to order her out of the house. Ellen pondered the question deeply, and after sleeping a night over it she came to the conclusion that she would take Mr. Levinger into her counsel. She knew him to be a shrewd and resourceful man; she knew, moreover—for her father had repeated the gist of the conversation between them—that he was bent upon the marriage of Henry with his daughter; and lastly she knew that he was the landlord of the Crown and Mitre, in which the Gillingwaters lived. Surely, therefore, if anyone could get rid of Joan, Mr. Levinger would be able to do so.
As it chanced upon this particular morning, Ellen was to drive over in the dog-cart to lunch at Monk’s Lodge, calling at the Crown and Mitre on her way through Bradmouth in order to hear the latest news of Henry. This programme she carried out, only stopping long enough at the inn, however, to run to her brother’s room for a minute while the cart waited at the door. Here she discovered him propped up with pillows, while by his side was seated Joan, engaged in reading, to him, and, worse still, in reading poetry. Now, for poetry in the abstract Ellen did not greatly care, but she had heard the tale of Paolo and Francesca, and knew well that when a young man and woman are found reading verses together, it may be taken as a sign that they are very much in sympathy.
“Good morning, Henry,” said Ellen. “Good gracious, my dear! what are you doing?”
“Good morning, Ellen,” he answered. “I am enjoying myself listening to Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very nicely indeed.”
Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and stood book in hand.
“I had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense, especially so early in the morning,” she said, glancing round, “when I see that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the poetry. I only came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going to lunch with the Levingers. Have you any message for them?”
“Nothing particular,” he said precisely, and with a slight hardening of his face, “except my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her note and the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me.”
“Very well, then; I will go on, as I don’t want to keep the mare standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon.” And she went without waiting for an answer.