Poor Eleanor! What a miserable time was that which she had passed since that afternoon when Pod Piper spoke to her in the conservatory! An hour before, she would have staked her existence on Pomeroy's truth and sincerity; and now, proof had been given her that he was nothing better than a common adventurer, who had sought to win her because she was rich! Truth and sincerity seemed to have vanished from the world. Nowhere could she feel sure that she had a friend who cared for her for herself alone, who would be the same to her to-morrow as to-day, if, by the touch of some wizard's wand, her money were suddenly turned to dross. How she wished that her father had left his riches elsewhere! How she wished that necessity had driven her to earn her living by her fingers or her brain! Then, if friendship or love had chanced to come to her, she would have known that they were genuine, because she would have had nothing but their like to give in return. The poorest shop-girl, who walked the streets on her sweetheart's arm, was richer than she in all that makes life sweet and beautiful.
Sometimes Eleanor recalled certain words of warning which Lady Dudgeon had on one occasion addressed to her. "Beware lest you fall into the hands of some swindling adventurer," her ladyship had said, "of some romantic rogue, with a handsome face and a wheedling tongue, who, while persuading you that he loves you for yourself alone, cares, in reality, for nothing but the money you will bring him."
Had not her ladyship's warning borne fruit already?
But ten minutes later she would reproach herself for thinking so hardly of Pomeroy. No; notwithstanding all that she had heard, she would not believe that he was an adventurer. There was a mistake somewhere, she felt sure.
How much of the unhappiness of life is due to misunderstandings and mistakes which a few frank words of explanation would often serve to put right!
But supposing Mr. Pomeroy offered her no explanation? Supposing he persisted in his suit, and went on making love to her on the assumption that after what had passed between them he would not be repulsed? Then, indeed, painful as such a course might be, she would feel compelled to tell him all that young Piper had told her, leaving him to deny it or explain it away as he might best be able.
There were some other words of Lady Dudgeon's which she could not quite forget, and which seemed to have a more apposite force at the present moment than when they were uttered. "If you become the wife of Captain Dayrell, you will have the consolation of knowing that you have not been sought for your money alone. Dayrell is rich enough to marry a woman without a penny, if he chose to do so." She did not like Captain Dayrell, and she would never become his wife, but for all that Lady Dudgeon's words would keep ringing in her ears.
When she heard Sir Thomas mention one day at dinner that Mr. Pomeroy was back again at Stammars, she felt strangely moved. However great his offences might be, his image still dwelt in her heart, and there was something delicious in the thought that he was once again under the same roof with her. She longed and yet dreaded to see him; but as day passed after day without giving him to her aching eyes, her longing deepened into an intense anxiety. She heard from those around her that he was not very well, and that beyond seeing Sir Thomas, on business matters, for an hour every morning, he kept to his own rooms. But if he were well enough to see Sir Thomas, he was surely well enough to see her--to see the woman whose lips he had kissed, and into whose ears he had whispered words that could never be forgotten! But perhaps he held himself aloof on purpose that they might not meet. Perhaps he was desirous of shunning her--wishful that she should understand that what had passed between them had better be forgotten, and that in time to come they must be as strangers, or, at the most, as mere acquaintances, to each other. If he could forget, she could do the same: her pride was quite a match for his. It was a time of bitter perplexity and trouble.
When Eleanor walked into the library to meet Pomeroy, she had his note hidden in the bosom of her dress. She looked very cold and very proud. Her coldness and her pride notwithstanding, she had kissed his letter and cried over it; but of that Gerald was to know nothing. He bowed gravely to her as she entered the room, but he did not speak, and that of itself was enough to send a chill to her heart. Then he placed a chair for her, and she sat down, but during the interview that followed, Gerald stood with his elbow resting on the chimney-piece.
"Miss Lloyd," he began, when Eleanor was seated, "I have taken the liberty of asking you to meet me privately, being desirous of saying something to you which I could not well communicate by letter, and which, perhaps, I ought to have told you long before now." His tone was very measured and grave. Was it possible, Eleanor asked herself, that she could be listening to the same man who had pressed her to his heart in a rapture of love only two short weeks ago?