"You are better now?" said Mr. Conroy. "Yes, I am better now," Ella replied mechanically. Her mind just yet only recognised one fact, that Conroy was by her side. He assisted her to rise. When she stood up and looked round, all the events of the afternoon flashed across her mind in a moment. What happy accident had brought Conroy, of all people in the world, to her rescue? But it was not a time to ask questions: that could be done afterwards.
"The sooner we get ashore4 the better," said Conroy. "Are you well enough to venture?"
"Quite well enough," answered Ella, with a rush of tears. "A little while ago I thought I should never set foot on shore again."
"But what became of the boat that brought you to the wreck5?--and what has become of Mr. Stone?"
"The rope that held the boat became unfastened, and the tide carried it away," she slowly answered, after a long pause.
But Hubert Stone, she mentally asked herself--what could have become of him: was he below still? Conroy repeated the question. He had heard from Mrs. Toynbee that it was Stone who had rowed Ella to the wreck.
"He--he went into the cabin," said Ella, shrinking from speaking too openly. "He went down first of all to look for George Petherton, and found he was not on board. He was below when I fainted."
"We'll soon see after him. You can be getting into the boat again," he added to the men.
The cabin door had been broken open: by Stone, of course. Conroy only supposed it had been done in the wreck, and descended6 the stairs. Presently he returned.
"Stone is not below. He is certainly not on board. I have looked everywhere."
"But he must be on board," said Ella, who did not wish to leave him to his fate, although he had behaved so ill to her. "He had no means of getting away. The little boat was gone."
"Unless he swam on shore," suggested Conroy. "A good swimmer could do it."
One of the men looked up to speak.
"Hubert Stone is one of the best swimmers we have, sir. The young lady knows it. He must ha' swum after the boat."
"Look here," interposed the other man: "as we were nearing the brig here, I saw something moving through the water a goodish distance off; but whether it was a man, or what it was, I couldn't make out."
"It must have been Stone that you saw," said Mr. Conroy. "In any case, he is not here. He must have gone to get help for you," he added to Ella: "a brave fellow!--though he had the tide all in his favour."
That it was Stone the man had seen there could be little doubt of. Conroy helped Ella into the boat, and the men rowed away.
It was almost dusk now. The great black bank of cloud was still climbing slowly up from the sea, and had shut out half the sky. The wind had risen considerably7 during the last half-hour, and the tide was rolling in in huge sullen8 masses of blue-green water, with here and there a white-topped wave.
"We shall have plenty of dirty weather before morning," remarked one boatman to the other.
Ella and Conroy sat in the stern of the boat. He had wrapped his ulster round her to protect her from the wind. Also, he had taken possession of one of her hands, and she made no attempt to withdraw it. When he had her heart already, why should she refuse him possession of her hand?
Ella shut her eyes and tried to realise her happiness. Oh, the difference that one short half-hour had made! She could hardly believe this, the sitting there, to be more than a blissful dream.
"What strange chance was it that brought you here to-day?" she said to him at last. "Did you drop down from the sky? How else did you come?"
"I came by a very slow train that was an hour longer on the road than it might have been," answered Conroy. "My employers ordered me abroad yesterday. Not very far this time. Only to Spain."
"For long?"
"I may be away three months, or I may be away six. It was impossible for me to start until I had seen you again."
There was something in his tone, as he spoke9 these words, that thrilled Ella's heart, and made her cheeks flush rosy-red. She was glad that it was too dark for him to see her face.
"I walked from the station direct to the Hall," resumed Conroy, after a pause. "Mrs. Toynbee told me where you had gone. She was beginning to be a little uneasy at your long stay on board. Not much so, only in her placid10 way. 'Miss Winter's movements cannot always be calculated beforehand,' she said to me."
Conroy spoke in imitation of Mrs. Toynbee's mincing11 way of speaking. Ella laughed.
"I believe she sets me down in her own mind as the most erratic12 and eccentric young woman it has ever been her fortune to live with."
"What a pity you are not more commonplace. She would like you so very much better," said Conroy. "However, though Mrs. Toynbee might be satisfied to account for your absence after her easy fashion, it did not satisfy me. I walked down to the village, and inquired among the boatmen whether any of them had seen you return. Several of them had seen you go out to the wreck, but no one had seen you come back, and they could not think what was keeping you. Then I hesitated no longer. I hired a boat, and got these two worthy13 fellows to accompany me. When we were about half a mile from shore we saw a bright tongue of flame leap suddenly up on the wreck: we knew that you must be in distress14, and the men redoubled their efforts at the oars15. The rest you know."
Conroy felt the hand that he was holding press his fingers softly.
"I had given up all hope of rescue," said Ella. "It must have been the special hand of Providence16 that brought you down to-day!"
"All the same, it was excessively careless of Hubert Stone not to make sure that the boat was fast; unpardonably so. In his place I should never forgive myself."
Ella made no response. Conroy judged from her silence that the matter had too thoroughly17 frightened her to be a pleasant topic of conversation: so he did not again allude18 to it. Stone had no doubt done his best to remedy his neglect by swimming off to get succour, and so for the present nothing more was said.
What a thankful heart was Ella's when she stepped out of the boat on to the sandy beach! She had been mercifully snatched from what at one time seemed certain death, and she was profoundly grateful to Him "whose mercy endureth for ever."
The villagers had seen the signal on the wreck, and men, women, and children hurried down to the shore. They crowded round Ella when she stepped out of the boat, and greeted her and Conroy with heartfelt cheers. Then Ella broke down. Her tears came hot and fast, and for a little while she could not say a word to any of them. A fly was soon obtained from the inn, and she was driven to the Hall. As they neared it, she looked at Conroy, who sat opposite to her.
"Please not to say anything to Mrs. Toynbee about what has occurred," she said, "or that you had to fetch me from the wreck. She will hear it to-morrow, of course; but really I feel that I could not bear questioning to-night."
And most adroitly19 did Conroy parry Mrs. Toynbee's remarks. The row on the sea had been longer than Miss Winter had expected, he said, and she was very tired.
Little sleep did Ella get that night. However tired she might be, her mind was intensely awake and excited; and the cold grey dawn was stealing into her room before she closed her eyes in forgetfulness. All through the night the wind blew in great gusts20 round the old house, the rain smote21 like whips on window and casement22, and the thunderous beat of the sea on the low, sandy beach grew louder and more loud as the dark hours slowly dragged themselves away. It was a great storm: and one inmate23 of the Hall at any rate, apart from Miss Winter, had her rest broken by it.
This was a stranger, named Betsy Tucker, who had entered the Hall as an additional servant a week or two before, the place having been procured24 for her by Mrs. Keen. The mother of this young woman had once lived at Nullington; she had recently died, and the daughter wrote to Mrs. Keen, who had been a companion of her mother in early life, to ask if she could find her a good situation; upon which the landlady25 spoke for her to Miss Winter, hearing that a third housemaid was needed at the Hall.
The girl, who knew nothing of the superstitious26 reports rife27 at Heron Dyke28, slept in a room by herself. On this night she could not get to sleep for the noise of the wind; suddenly, during its pauses, she heard, or thought she heard, footsteps pacing the corridor outside her door. Much startled, the girl held her breath, and became convinced she was not mistaken: she heard them distinctly. They came and went several times, once or twice they were accompanied by a low moan. Betsy lay working herself into a fever.
She could bear this in the dark no longer; so she struck a match and lighted her candle. Then, as she was sitting up in bed listening to the footsteps, she heard them stop close to her door, and saw the handle of the door move; some one was turning it from the outside. For the moment she forgot that she had locked it; she screamed aloud; and, throwing her arms out of bed in her terror, upset the candle, and was left in darkness.
"You may be sure there was no more sleep for me all night," said Betsy, when relating this to her fellow-servants the following morning. "But now--who could have been there? I heard the steps, and I heard the moans, and I saw the handle of the door turn: it's as true as that I am here to tell you."
Such was the story she whispered. Her awe-struck listeners thought of Katherine Keen, but not one of them mentioned the name. Betsy slept alone, and they would not frighten her unnecessarily.
Early in the day came tidings that the _Seamew_ was no longer to be seen. As predicted, the brig had gone to pieces during the gale29. Ella shuddered31 when the news was told her: could it be that Hubert Stone was still on board? Several planks32 and some broken spars were washed ashore in the course of the following tide.
The moment Ella had awakened33 that morning, the warning spoken by Hubert rang in her ears: "What you hold, you hold by fraud: a dozen words from me, and Heron Dyke would know you as its mistress no more." Surely, she reasoned, they could be the words of no other than a madman!
Nevertheless, they haunted her. What--she could not help asking herself--what if they were true?--what then?--was there any hidden secret--any fraud connected with her succession to the property? She could not think it possible. Still, do what she might, she did not get them out of her mind. Last night, in the joy of her deliverance from a cruel death, and under the glad influence of Conroy's presence, she had thought but little of them; but this morning, when her mind was fresh and clear, they were branded on her memory as if with a red-hot iron.
Nothing was seen of Hubert at the Hall that day, and Miss Winter made no inquiry34 respecting him. She thought it not unlikely, after what had passed between them, that he would have the grace to absent himself for a little time. Conroy had spoken of the keg of spirits and the horn drinking-cup he saw below--in fact, she had seen them herself; she felt little doubt that Hubert had imbibed35 some, which in a degree might account for his ill-behaviour, and that he was now ashamed of himself. It would be impossible to retain him as steward36 at the Hall, but Miss Winter could recommend him elsewhere. Meanwhile she did not intend to speak of what had passed, but to bury it in oblivion. It was not a pleasant thing in any way, either to speak or to think of.
Mr. Conroy was at Heron Dyke betimes on the morning after the visit to the wreck. He was anxious to hear that Ella had suffered in no way from her adventure: at least, that was what he told Mrs. Toynbee, for Miss Winter was not yet downstairs when he reached the Hall; but there may have been some other motive37 in his mind of which he did not choose to speak. What a glad light leapt into Ella's eyes when she walked into the room and saw who was there! Conroy's earnest face brightened as if with a sudden burst of sunshine, while he took her hand for a moment and inquired after her health. Truth to tell, Ella had a slight headache this morning, but not for worlds would she have owned to it. They sat and talked about the gale and other matters, but never alluded38 to the adventure on the wreck, Mrs. Toynbee interposing one of her little commonplaces now and again; and so the time wore on till luncheon39.
"Won't you go out for a short walk with me, Miss Winter?" asked Conroy, as they rose from the meal. "You have no idea how delightful40 the park is after last night's rain."
"Delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Toynbee. "Why, the footpaths41 must be in a complete puddle42."
"So they are, madam. But, none the less, I maintain that the park this morning is delightful."
"And there's still enough wind to almost carry you away; and the rain may recommence at any moment! persisted the lady.
"Those are facts it would be useless to dispute," rejoined Conroy, equably.
"On such a day I am sure Miss Winter would be far better indoors."
"Nay43, I think it just the day to be out," said Ella, with a blush and a smile; "and I have thick boots, you know, Mrs. Toynbee. A little wind, a little sunshine, and the possibility of a shower: what more could any reasonable creature wish for? Mr. Conroy, I shall be ready in three minutes."
Mrs. Toynbee shrugged44 her shoulders in mild protest, but she said no more.
The paths in the park were certainly very sloppy45, and the wind when they faced it almost took away their breath; but what cared those two for such trifles? they but served to enhance the charms of their walk. Conroy took a turning that led to the shore. "Not that way, please," said Ella, with a slight shudder30. She did not care to look upon the sea again at present; so they turned their faces another way, finding a dry and sheltered walk, where they were free from the impertinences of the wind, by the edge of the plantation46 of young larches47 which covered a piece of rising ground to the left of the Hall. Here they paced backwards48 and forwards for upwards49 of an hour.
The rain last night had washed the atmosphere so that even the most distant objects looked sharp and clearly defined. Away over the sea, the sun streamed down through a rift50 in the grey, low-hanging clouds, that widened out one minute till a glimpse of blue sky could be seen beyond it, and the next contracted its fleecy walls again till nothing was left save a thin shaft51 of blinding light that smote the water like a golden spear. Faint resinous52 odours were wafted53 fitfully from the plantation; in the hollows of the footpaths tiny pools of rain-water shivered in the cool September wind.
Ella seemed in a peculiarly happy mood. Why she should be so she could not have explained even to herself, for had not Conroy told her that he was about to go away for an indefinite length of time, and was not the echo of Hubert Stone's mysterious words ringing in her memory? But so it was. She could no more account for her gladness than a child can for its fondness for play. Had she any faintest premonition, had her heart secretly warned her that a momentous54 instant was at hand? Be that as it may, Ella found fifty different things to talk about, and seemed nervously55 anxious not to let the conversation flag for a moment. She had all sorts of questions to ask about Spain, the country and the people, as though she had never read a book about it in her life. She hoped that Conroy would not run into any unnecessary danger, and now and then at intervals56 he must send her a little sketch57 of some place that he had visited, just to prove to her that he was still alive. She had often had an idea that she should like to learn Spanish, and had been told that it was nearly as musical as Italian. She would buy a grammar and dictionary at once; it would be a capital occupation for the long evenings of the coming winter; and when Mr. Conroy should return in spring she should doubtless be able to greet him in the choicest Castilian.
Suddenly Ella paused in her talk to stand still. The clock over the Hall stables was striking the hour. "I did not suppose it was so late," she exclaimed. "I should have thought that the old clock was an hour fast, but that I know how painfully accurate it always is. We had better return. After what happened yesterday, Mrs. Toynbee may be sending the bellman round the village to cry me as lost."
"Give me ten minutes more, and then we will go," said the young man. "Who can tell when we shall see each other again?"
Ella tacitly assented58, and they took a turn or two in silence. All her high spirits seemed suddenly to have deserted59 her.
"Before leaving you I have a few words to say to you: it was to say them that I have come all the way from London,"--and Conroy took one of her hands in his as he spoke thus, even as he had taken it last evening in the boat. Ella's heart gave a great bound, she drew in her breath with a half sigh and trembled from head to foot.
"Ella--may I dare to call you so?--I could not go away without telling you how I love you, without telling you that I have loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you that evening last year at Mrs. Carlyon's, and that I can never cease to love you while I live! I could not go away--Ella, I _could_ not--without asking you whether I may come and claim you as my wife when I return."
He held both her hands by this time, and was gazing down fondly into her face. She had turned very pale when he first began to speak, but by the time he had done two blush-roses burned in her cheeks. Tremors60 of love, and joy, and happiness unspeakable thrilled her heart. She was standing61 with downcast eyes, and she stood thus for a little while after he had ceased speaking. Her breath came and went quickly, the tears were rising. Another moment and she had lifted her glance to his. Her lips were quivering with emotion, but from her eyes, love--love not to be mistaken for anything else--looked out at Conroy through a mist of tears. Not one word did she say; there was no necessity to say it. That one look told Conroy all he cared to know. He folded her in his arms, he pressed his lips to hers, he whispered words in her ears sacred to her alone.
As they were walking slowly back arm in arm through the park, Conroy broke the thrilling silence. "Do you know, cara mia, what the world will call me? It will brand me as a fortune-hunter, and say that I should never have sought you for my wife had you not been the mistress of Heron Dyke."
The words sent a shock through her, like a dart62. Was she the mistress of Heron Dyke? She was not, if there were truth in what Hubert Stone had declared to her. Her lover's constancy might be put to the test before long in a way he little dreamed of now. "You can afford to smile at anything the world may choose to say," she answered. "So can I so long as I have vanity enough to think that you care for me for myself alone."
"But that I had the fear of your broad acres before my eyes I should have spoken to you long ere this," he answered. "Had your uncle been a poor man, or you not his heiress, I should have asked you at his hands last autumn."
How sweet the words sounded to her--how true was their ring!--and after what that other man had said!
"Suppose that when you return from Spain, you should find that I am no longer mistress of Heron Dyke!" she cried impulsively63. "Suppose you should find that, by some mischance or other, I am poor instead of rich? What would you say then to your intended wife?"
"I should say, 'What seems to you a loss has made me one of the happiest fellows alive.' I should say, 'Let us marry at once, however humble64 our home may be.' I should say, 'I am glad that your riches have taken to themselves wings; it is only fit and proper that a man should work for his wife.' I don't think," he added, "that I could love you more than I do now, but somehow you might perhaps seem closer to me if you came to me as the beggar-maid went to King Cophetua."
Ella sighed. It was happiness to hear him talk thus; and yet his words brought to her a sting of pain. How glad she would be to endow him with every worldly good--and who seemed so fit to be the master of Heron Dyke? And yet, perhaps--who could say?--he might love her all the better if she went to him in a cotton gown, with a simple flower in her hair.
"But what makes you talk as if Heron Dyke and you were about to part company?" he presently asked.
"Perhaps we may be: I cannot tell," she answered, a cloud as of trouble passing over her face.
Conroy saw it, and looked perplexed65. He bit his lip.
"Pardon me, Ella, but I do not see how anything of that kind could come to pass. Your uncle was too shrewd a man not to take every proper precaution in a matter so gravely important."
Ella did not answer for a few moments, and when she spoke it was with hesitation66. "Might there not be such a thing as a flaw in the title?"
Conroy started slightly. "In his title, do you mean? I cannot think of anything more improbable. Have you any reason for suggesting this?"
"Here we are at home," said Ella hurriedly, for they had reached it. "I cannot tell you anything more, and you must please not ask me to. In any case, whatever happens, I trust that I shall be enabled to do my duty."
"That I am sure you will always do," responded Conroy, warmly. "Remember," he added in a low tone, "that in good fortune or evil fortune my love for you can never change."
They were standing under the porch, not yet having rung. She looked up with a shy sweet smile as he spoke. The opportunity was too tempting67 to be resisted; he might not have another one for ever so long. He was an audacious man in many ways, and before Ella was aware, his arms were round her and his lips pressed to hers.
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1
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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