Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “You may be sure of that!” laughed Lionel, for she had told him what had taken place in the library.

  “Then this is going to be good-bye until you come to town again?” she said, rather sadly.

  “I suppose so,” Lionel admitted disconsolately.

  They looked at each other a moment.

  “Are you quite — quite sure that you want it?” she asked presently.

  “Quite sure,” he answered, without hesitation.

  “Because men have done such things and have been sorry afterwards. Since I’ve been here I’ve understood that it’s not going to be nearly so easy for you as I had thought. I’ve not spoken about it, but I must before you take the final step. It’s all so different from what I had expected, or even dreamed of.”

  “What is different?” Lionel asked.

  “The way you live. You see, you never told me anything about it. You only said that your father was a country gentleman, decently well off, and that you could give yourself up to study because you would have enough to live on. You never gave me the least idea that you were very rich people, nor that it was a great old estate and entailed, and all that sort of thing. It makes a difference, you know.”

  “I don’t see why,” Lionel objected.

  “I do. It’s one thing for the son of a quiet, retired officer of no particular position to marry a foundling and a governess. It’s quite another, now that you turn out to be great country people, related to half the peerage, and perfectly frightfully rich. I wish you were not.”

  Lionel laughed. “If I were not,” he answered, “I should not be able to do as I please without asking leave of any one. I should have to go to work to earn our living, and I have not the faintest idea how I should do that. As a matter of fact, I should not have had the right to ask you to marry me, just for the pleasure of starving together.”

  “That would be better than nothing,” answered Ellen, without much reflection. “As it is, I am not sure that I have a right to marry you — though I will, if you’ll have me! Every one will call me a scheming adventuress.”

  “I think not,” said Lionel, and his rather gentle and melancholy face grew suddenly obdurate and almost remorseless. “Of course there will be one row and a general exchange of pleasant family amenities. But there will never be another.”

  “And what will happen if I change my mind, and tell you that it has all been a mistake, and that I think it would be very wrong of me to marry you, because I should ruin your life?”

  “I don’t know what would happen,” Lionel answered, with a confident smile. “You had better ask a dramatist or a man who writes novels.”

  He was right in that, for they were the least dramatic pair in the world, and Lionel’s courtship had been of the simplest and most conventional sort. Their affection for each other had begun quietly, and had grown the more steadily and strongly for having been quite undisturbed, until it had entirely absorbed their two existences into one growth. The idea of separation seemed as absurd to them now as that the law of gravity should be suddenly reversed, or that trees should grow upside down. They did not realise that such attachments really have in them the character of fate — the very kind which most surely ends in tragedy when it does not lead to perfect happiness.

  Even now, when action was unavoidable and the first great moment seemed to be at hand, they parted without much show of feeling. Each felt perfectly sure of the other, and both were certain that there would not be many more partings.

  CHAPTER VI

  ELLEN KNOCKED AT the door of Lady Jane’s morning room and composed her face for the coming interview. She was quite sure that her request to be allowed to leave at once would be granted with enthusiasm, but it was necessary to play her little part with circumspection and dignity.

  She found Lady Jane armed to the teeth: to be plain, she was dressed for motoring, and presented a formidable appearance, besides being evidently in a hurry. But Miss Scott was not intimidated; on the contrary, she judged that the interview would be the sooner over.

  “I’ve come to ask if you will let me off my engagement, and allow me to go home,” she said quietly.

  Lady Jane stared hard at her for a moment, before speaking.

  “Why?”

  That was all; but the question was not exactly easy to answer, and she was quite unprepared for it.

  “I shall be very grateful if you will let me go,” she said.

  “But why? You must have a reason, and I think I have a right to know what it is.”

  Ellen felt inclined to recall to Lady Jane the tone of the advertisement, but was afraid that she might be thought vain of her present improved appearance.

  “You have been very kind to me,” she said, after a moment’s thought; “I shall never forget it. But the greatest kindness of all will be to let me go home.”

  Lady Jane was still standing; she made a step forward, so that she was quite close to the governess, and she gazed steadily into her eyes.

  “Some one has annoyed you,” she said suddenly, with great decision. “I am quite sure of it. No, my dear, you need not shake your head. I know it. The fact is, that from being perfectly” — she was going to say hideous, but checked herself— “from being distinctly plain, you have grown to be as pretty as a picture! And the usual result has followed! You’ve turned all their heads!”

  “Really, Lady Jane!” cried Miss Scott in a tone of deprecation, and she could not help blushing in the most charming way possible.

  “It’s quite true.” Lady Jane sat down and looked disconsolately at her neat gaiters.

  “It’s all my fault for giving you my lotion and making you dress better,” she added, evidently in extreme dejection.

  Ellen bit her lip. “I can’t help being grateful to you for it,” she said.

  “The worst of it is that I’ve grown to like you,” responded Lady Jane in evident despair. “If it was only because you’re such a good governess, and have such wonderful influence over the girls, it wouldn’t matter much, would it?”

  Ellen smiled, in spite of herself, but could find nothing to say.

  “You see,” Lady Jane continued, “I have never had a governess I liked, till now. If you knew what I’ve been through with them! There was that Miss Kirk, with her violet eyes — oh, that Miss Kirk! I wonder I did not beat her! One of the most delightful moments of my life was when I told her to go. But you! You’re the ideal! What possessed me, to give you my lotion! I might have known it would cure you.”

  She was really distressed, but Miss Scott did not know what to say.

  “I saw it coming,” Lady Jane went on, presently. “I’ve seen this coming for days and days! Why in the world must all my men be such utter butterflies — the whole hive of them! I mean — of course, butterflies don’t live in hives, do they? — oh, you know what I mean! But when I saw how well you behaved — with such dignity, so unlike that Miss Kirk — well, I thought you would give them all a lesson, and that there would be peace. But I suppose that was impossible.”

  “But it’s not that, I assure you,” objected Ellen.

  “Nonsense! It’s very nice of you to say so, of course, and you may be sure that I shall not ask you to go into details. That wouldn’t be quite nice of me, would it? But you can’t go! You simply can’t, for I won’t let you; and I’m sure I don’t know what is to be done if you stay.”

  “I really think I must go, Lady Jane.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Lady Jane, with the utmost decision. “That’s quite ridiculous, you know, so we needn’t talk about it. The question is, what will happen next? Do you think, perhaps, that if you stop using the lotion, your complexion will — er—”

  “Get blotchy again?” asked Ellen, completing the sentence. “It may, I suppose; but I think the thing is quite gone. Will you look at my cheek?”

  Lady Jane bent down a little, for she was much the taller, and carefully examined the cheek in question, poking it with one of her heavily gloved fingers.


  “No,” she said regretfully, “it’s just like a healthy baby’s. Of course,” she added, with what seemed a happy inspiration, “you could do your hair as you used to again, like a skinned rabbit. And I suppose you could wear your clothes in a bunch; and it’s not necessary for your health for you to stuff out your shoulder. By-the-bye, it’s awfully well done!”

  She put out her hands with the evident intention of touching the stuffing; but as there was none, Ellen sprang back, dodging away from her and laughing.

  “Oh, please don’t!” she cried.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Lady Jane in surprise.

  “I’m so dreadfully ticklish about the neck! I really cannot bear to have any one touch me. I should have a fit!”

  “How very odd! Were you always like that? But some people are. Never mind, I won’t touch you, my dear. Only, if you were willing just to make those little changes in your appearance — er — it’s a great deal to ask, I suppose, isn’t it?”

  “Well — frankly, it is, Lady Jane,” Ellen laughed, in spite of herself.

  But she was immensely disturbed by the unexpected difficulty that faced her, and she had a vision of being obliged to run away as the only means of escaping.

  “I don’t see what else we can do,” returned Lady Jane. “As for parting with you, it’s out of the question. My girls are different beings since you have had them in hand. If you knew what my life has been, since they were out of the nursery, compared with what it is now, you really wouldn’t have the heart to talk of leaving me, nor the conscience either!”

  “I’m very, very glad that you are pleased,” Ellen answered, with an air of meek gratitude, “but I assure you I must—”

  “No doubt, but you shan’t, my dear, and there’s an end of it!” Lady Jane was ready to lose her temper, but laughed to hide the fact. “It’s out of the question at this moment,” she continued. “We are all going off to-day, and you must see yourself that the girls cannot be left alone in the house with Lionel! They would set the place on fire, or go to town by themselves and get lost, or do some dreadful thing. Don’t you see?”

  “I did not know you were all going away,” said Ellen, somewhat disturbed.

  “Yes. We only made up our minds last night, or I would have told you. Jocelyn is going up with the Trevelyans in their balloon to-morrow morning, and my husband and I want to see the start; and Claude is to play for Yorkshire at Lords to-morrow, and when we’ve seen the ascent, the Colonel wants to watch the match, and I mean to chase the balloon in the new motor. I’ve got an electric searchlight, with accumulators, fitted up so that I can see it all night. Rather sporting, that, isn’t it? We may fetch up at John O’Groat’s House, or at Land’s End, you know — so delightfully uncertain — you cannot tell which way the thing will go. But just fancy my anxiety if I knew all the time that those little pickles were riding steeplechases in the park, or motoring across country and breaking their necks. It’s too awful to think of!”

  “Quite too dreadful,” assented Ellen.

  “But you won’t be away long, I suppose? I will stay till you come home, at all events, if you wish it.”

  “Wish it? I should think I did! Besides, you must, my dear. So that’s settled, and we’ll be off, for it’s getting late.”

  A quarter of an hour later the huge motor was bowling down the Malton road, and King’s Follitt was left to Lionel, Miss Scott, and the two girls, very much to the surprise of all four. For on the previous evening Lionel had gone off to his books soon after dinner, and had finished breakfast with his sisters and the governess before any of the others appeared. Indeed, it was not till luncheon that he knew of their abrupt departure.

  At the first opportunity, Ellen told him about the interview in the morning, and added that she meant to disappear as soon as the family returned. That would be the only way open to her.

  Lionel was as much surprised as she had been by Lady Jane’s attitude, but it seemed promising for the future. At all events, when the time came for him to declare his intention of marrying Miss Scott, he could remind his mother that she had liked Ellen for her own sake; and as she was a truthful and just woman, she would not deny it. That would be something, at all events: matters would have been far worse if she had hated the governess, as she had hated the former ones, each and all.

  “We must be married in June,” Lionel said again, for having once made up his mind he was not likely to change it. “We will spend the summer abroad, and go to India next winter. By that time they will have got used to the idea, and a year hence we can come home.”

  “That sounds delightful,” Ellen answered. “I wish we could take my father, for no one knows India as he does. But then, we couldn’t be alone all the time, if he came.”

  “I should like to take him,” said Lionel. “Perhaps we could bargain for so many hours a day!”

  But they did not take Mr. Herbert Scott of the British Museum to India, or anywhere else; for things turned out very differently. The Fate of the Follitts had been dozing comfortably for some time, but now she suddenly woke up refreshed with sleep, and got into the balloon with Jocelyn and the Trevelyans, and did queer things, which nobody else could have done.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE WIND WAS fresh from the south-west, with rain, and the night was dark. The balloon was driving along at a dangerous rate, considering the low altitude.

  “I give it up,” said Bob Trevelyan, who had not spoken for a long time. “We’ve been travelling five hours, and I haven’t the vaguest idea where we are.”

  “Does it matter much?” inquired Jocelyn lazily.

  For he was comfortable where he was, and hoped that it would go on a long time, since he was pleasantly close to Anne Trevelyan in the bottom of the car. No one who has not been up in a gale can have any idea of the profound quiet which seems to enfold the balloon as it is borne noiselessly along in the arms of the wind, perhaps at thirty or forty miles an hour. If it rains, you hear the drops pattering on the envelope overhead; if you are near the ground at night, the howling of the wind through the unseen trees comes up to you in a rather dismal way; but no matter how hard it blows, there is peace and tranquillity in the car.

  Anne Trevelyan and her friend Lady Dorothy Wynne were poring over a map, by the light of an electric lamp which Jocelyn held for them.

  “It might matter a little,” Anne said, looking up with a laugh as she spoke; “for the only thing that is quite certain is that we are bound to get to the sea pretty soon. I think I’ll have a look.”

  She got up, and all three scrambled to their feet and peered over the edge of the car.

  “It really is rather a dirty night,” observed Lady Dorothy, with great calm.

  “Distinctly,” said Anne, admitting what could not be denied.

  Jocelyn said nothing, for he knew that a woman who is inaccessible to physical fear is much more reckless than any brave and sensible man has a right to be, and he was beginning to wonder what the end would be like, and how many arms and legs, or even necks, would be broken before morning. For it was his first ascent, and though he was not scared he realised that there was danger.

  There had been a good deal of delay at the start, and the breeze had been light from the south during most of the afternoon, though the sky had been threatening. The wind had strengthened, however, as it hauled to the south-west, and at dusk it had freshened to a gale. Then the darkness had come on quickly, almost suddenly, as it does even on land, when the sky blackens with heavy clouds just at sunset. It was now quite impossible to distinguish anything on the face of the earth below, but all around the horizon there was a faint belt of grey, which was not light, but was not quite pitch darkness. The ominous moaning of the wind amongst the trees began to make itself heard.

  “It’s not wildly gay here,” said Lady Dorothy. “Can’t you manage to get above the clouds?”

  Bob pointed to the inky sky overhead. “Those clouds are half a mile thick,” he said quietly. “There you are!
We’re in another!”

  “How are we off for ballast?” inquired Anne, as the chilly fog filled the car.

  “Six bags gone already, and only two left,” Bob answered with grim calm.

  “Not really?” cried Dorothy in some dismay.

  “Yes. How can you expect any balloon to keep up in this rain? She’s being battered down by it. We are getting lower every minute.”

  At that moment the balloon shivered like a live thing, and flapped her loose sides. Bob shovelled some sand overboard.

  “We’ll keep the last bag,” he said; “but to-morrow’s breakfast must go. Pass me the bottle of milk — that’s heavy.”

  Jocelyn got a big stoneware bottle from the basket by the light of the electric lamp, and gave it to Trevelyan.

  “Don’t murder anybody below,” he said.

  Bob dropped the thing overboard, and almost immediately a dull thud was heard out of the darkness as it struck the earth. But there was no sound of breaking; they were over a meadow or a ploughed field.

  “Give me that pie,” said Bob. “Wasn’t there a magnum of champagne somewhere? It’s got to go too.”

  “Hullo! What’s that?” cried Anne joyfully. “I believe it’s the moon, and we’re out of the clouds!”

  “By Jove!” ejaculated Jocelyn, who was not easily surprised, and was not at all enthusiastic about the beauties of nature.

  The inky cloud had not been so deep as Bob had supposed, and the balloon, responding the instant her ballast was lightened, had struck upwards to the clear outer air; the moon had risen, and was still almost full, and in the far sky, beyond her radiance, the stars twinkled softly as on a summer night.

  The four young people almost held their breath while they were silently borne along in a vision of transcendent beauty. Beneath them, the dark clouds had been whirling in the gale that tore and churned and wrung them with its unseen airy hands; above, there was the peace of heaven itself and the loveliness of earth’s first moonlight on the evening after the first day. The moving mass of cloud below looked suddenly motionless, vast and solid as grey rock, and the huge black shadow of the balloon and the car ran swiftly over it, clear and sharply outlined.