CHAPTER VII.

POD'S REVELATION.

Miss Lloyd pleaded a violent headache as an excuse for her non-attendance at the breakfast-table the morning after the scene between herself and Gerald in the back drawing-room. She felt as if she could not face any one for a little while; but, more than all, the possibility of meeting Gerald frightened her. To have gone in to breakfast, and have found him there, would have set her heart fluttering and have brought the tell-tale colour to her cheeks, and would almost infallibly have betrayed her secret to every one. No; she felt as if she could not meet any one just yet--that she did not want to meet anyone. She asked for no greater happiness at present than to sit alone by her dressing-room fire, and live over again in memory last night's wondrous scene. She had only to shut her eyes, and every word, and look, and tone, came back to her with the most realistic force. What a change three short minutes had wrought in her life! She seemed to have lived a hundred years since yesterday morning; or, rather, the Eleanor Lloyd of yesterday was dead and buried--dead and buried because the poor creature had not known what it was to love!

It was, indeed, like the beginning of a new life to her. "To think that I have been loving him all along, and did not know it!" she said to herself, with a little laugh. "I wonder how long it is since he first found out that he loved me. I will make him tell me all about it after awhile."

Then her cheeks flushed, and her heart beat faster at the thought of all that such a sweet possibility implied.

"How glad I am that he is poor and I am rich," she said. "All that I have shall be his. My money will lend wings to his ambition." Then came the thought, "When shall I see him again, and what will he say when I do see him?"

She felt that she dreaded and yet longed for the time to come when they should meet again. It would be trying enough to have to meet him in the company of others, but the thought of encountering him alone, while sending a delicious thrill through her, made her quake with fear.

On one point she was quite determined--she would shun a private interview with him as long as possible. She was quite aware that such an interview must take place sooner or later, but it should be altogether of his seeking, not of hers. She knew her own weakness. She knew that whenever Mr. Pomeroy should say to her, "Eleanor, I love you, and I want you to become my wife," all power of resistance would be taken from her, and that she should have no alternative but to yield. At present she had not yielded, and she would try to keep out of his way for a little while longer. When next he should encounter her, the spear of his love would smite her, and she must needs become his bondswoman for ever.

Lady Dudgeon sent some breakfast upstairs, and, by-and-by, she made her appearance in person. She wanted to satisfy herself that there was nothing seriously the matter with Miss Lloyd. It was but a simple headache, Eleanor informed her.

"But you are slightly feverish, child," persisted her ladyship; "and you look as if you had not had enough sleep."

Which statement was true enough. Some sensible young ladies there are whose healthy slumbers not even the imprint of Love's first kiss upon their lips has the slightest power to disturb; but not one of such strong-minded maidens was our foolish Eleanor.

"I will look up again about eleven," said her ladyship, "and if you are not better by that time I shall make you up a little mixture of my own."

Eleanor promised herself that she would be better by that time, as her ladyship's mixtures--she prided herself on being able to physic all her household without calling in the doctor--had the invariable property of being excessively nauseous.

She hugged herself with a little shiver of delight when she was left alone again to think her own thoughts. What a surprise it would be to Lady Dudgeon--and, indeed, to everybody! Of course, she would be told that Mr. Pomeroy had only made love to her because she was rich; but in her own heart she knew so much better than that!

All at once it struck her that there were one or two notes she ought to write this morning; so she went to her davenport, and took pen and paper. But, somehow, her thoughts would go wool-gathering, and the notes refused to get themselves written. Then she began to scribble on the sheet before her. She wrote her own name several times over, and then, without knowing it, she found that she had written "John Pomeroy." Really, it looked very nice. Then the question put itself to her--"How should I have to address him in case he were to ask me to write to him?" Then she wrote, "Dear Mr. Pomeroy;" but that would be too formal as between engaged people. Then she tried, "My dear John," and "My darling John"--decided improvements both. Then, with the tip of the pen between her lips, and her head a little on one side, she studied the general effect of what she had written. Not satisfied with that, and being quite sure that she was all alone, she tried the effect of speaking the magic words aloud--though, indeed, it was little more than a timid whisper. Every syllable spoken thus was full of hidden music. Then she took up the pen again, and, hardly conscious of what she was doing, she wrote, "My own dear husband." But this was too much. With a little cry, and a sudden blush, she crumpled up the paper, ran across the room, and dropped it into the fire. Next moment she thought she heard the sound of voices. She went to the door, opened it softly, and listened.

It was as she had thought, Sir Thomas and Mr. Pomeroy were talking together on the floor below. She could not make out what they were talking about--she did not want to do that--all that she wanted was just to hear the sound of Pomeroy's voice. How strangely it thrilled her this morning to hear that voice again, which she could already have singled out from ten thousand others, and to hear which was, for her, to hear a sweeter music than could have been distilled from all the other sounds in the universe!

The last time she had heard that voice was when it spoke to her. What were the words? "If I could only tell you how much I love you!" It was to her those words were spoken--to her, Eleanor Lloyd! But surely it was not yesterday, but long, long years ago that she had heard them! She felt already as if she had loved him all her life.

And then his lips had pressed hers, once--twice--thrice! That, indeed, was something fresh--the revelation of a new life! And then his arms had twined round her--strong, comforting--and had pressed her to his bosom as if she were a little child. And in that one timid glance which she had shot up into his eyes, had she not seen there depths of tenderness and devotion that were to be hers--hers alone--through all the days of her life yet to come? What a happy, happy girl she was this morning!

She was quite startled to hear the clock strike eleven. How quickly the morning had flown! Lady Dudgeon came up to see how she was, but with her came Eleanor's particular friend, Miss Lorrimore, who announced, in the impetuous way usual with her, that she had come to fetch Eleanor away for a couple of days. Eleanor was by no means loth to go. It was as if a door of escape had suddenly opened for her. In half an hour she was ready, Lady Dudgeon's mild opposition being overruled by the two girls without compunction.

Miss Lorrimore's ponies had been waiting all this time. As Eleanor was being driven through the avenue, her quick eyes saw Sir Thomas and Mr. Pomeroy walking together in one of the side paths a little distance away.

"I should like to stop and speak to Sir Thomas," said Miss Lorrimore.

"No, no; don't stop!" said Eleanor; "but drive on faster, if you love me."

The gentlemen raised their hats, Eleanor fluttered her handkerchief for a moment, and that was the last that she and Gerald saw of each other for some time to come.

In the first place, Eleanor's visit to Miss Lorrimore, instead of being for two days only, extended over five. In the second place, when she did get back to Stammars, she found that Gerald was away in London on business for Sir Thomas. This was a little disappointment to her, for by this time she was growing impatient to see him again. She did not like to ask how soon he was expected back, and no one volunteered to tell her.

How bitterly she blamed herself now for running away from him! What a strange, flighty girl he must take her to be! Perhaps, as she had so deliberately run away from him, he would not think her worthy of further notice, and would regard all that had happened between them as nothing more than a foolish dream. This thought was almost unbearable, and now was Eleanor as wretched as she had been happy before. But to be frequently wretched and miserable is part of the penalty incurred by all who are so weak-minded as to fall in love. Such people are not to be pitied.

Gerald, on his side, being smitten with the same disorder, was subject to the same exaltations and depressions, had his hours of fever and his hours of chill. At one time he felt sure that Eleanor loved him a little in return. Had he not seen, or fancied that he saw, a world of love and trust in her eyes during those few brief seconds when she had let him press her to his heart? At another time he felt sure that his roughness and impetuosity had frightened her: that she was staying away from Stammars on purpose to avoid him; that he had offended her past recovery. It was almost a relief to be sent up to London on business by Sir Thomas, who, being about this time confined to his room with a severe cold, was obliged to make use of Gerald in various ways. Gerald hoped that by the time he got back from town Eleanor would have returned to Stammars, in which case he had quite made up his mind that he would lose no time in deciding his fate once for all.

In his more hopeful moments, it was very pleasant to him to think that Eleanor had learned, or was learning, to love him for himself alone. As a poor man he had wooed her, and as a poor man he should win her. He often speculated as to what would be the effect upon her of the news which he must of necessity tell her before he could make her his wife. In the first place, he could not marry her under a false name. He must necessarily tell her that her name was not Eleanor Lloyd, but Eleanor Murray. Then would follow, as a matter of course, her father's story, which would, in its turn, elicit the fact that, as Jacob Lloyd had died without a will, Eleanor had no right to a single sixpence of the property he had left behind him. Next would have to come the telling of everything to Ambrose Murray. Last but not least, would come the revelation to Eleanor that the man she was going to marry was not John Pomeroy, but Gerald Warburton. One fact he would, if it were possible to do so, keep from her till after their marriage--he would not let her know that he was the heir to Jacob Lloyd's property--to the wealth which she had all along believed to be hers. It was his fancy that she should marry him in the belief that he was a poor man. All the greater would be her after-surprise.

It so fell out that a couple of days after Eleanor's return from her visit to Miss Lorrimore, and while Gerald was still absent from Stammars, Mr. Pod Piper, whom it is hoped the reader has not quite forgotten, was sent there with certain papers that required Sir Thomas's signature. Having taken the papers into the library, Pod was told to go and amuse himself for half an hour, by which time the documents would be ready for him to take back to Mr. Kelvin.

Pod was one of those people who never find much difficulty in amusing themselves. His first proceeding was to make his way to the kitchen and ask whether they had got any cold sirloin and strong ale with which to refresh a weary wayfarer. Pod was not unknown at Stammars, and his needs were duly attended to. After that he strolled into the garden, and ensconcing himself behind a large laurel, where he could not be seen from any of the windows, he proceeded to light and smoke the remaining half of a cigar which he happened to have by him. Cigars being a luxury that he could not often indulge in, Pod generally contrived to make one last him for two occasions.

When the cigar was smoked down to the last half-inch, Pod thought that he would take a turn round the conservatory, and as he felt sure that the crusty-looking old gardener had never seen him before, it struck him that there would be no harm in trying to impress the old fellow with the belief that he was being honoured by the presence of some guest of distinction--"some young swell of the upper ten," as Pod put it to himself. Accordingly, before opening the glass door of the conservatory, Mr. Piper produced from his pocket a pair of rather dingy lavender kid gloves, one of which he put on, leaving the other to be carried in an easy, dégagé style, such as would seem natural to a young fellow whose uncle was a marquis at the very least. The fact, however, was, that the gloves were odd ones, and as they were both intended for the right hand, Pod could not conveniently wear more than one of them at a time.

Pod's next proceeding was to give his hat a careful polish with the sleeve of his coat, and then to cock it a little more on one side of his head than he usually wore it. Then one end of his white handkerchief was allowed to hang negligently out of his pocket. Then, from some mysterious receptacle Pod produced an eye-glass. Many weary hours had he spent in his attempts to master the nice art of wearing an eye-glass easily and without conscious effort. But as yet his labours could hardly be said to be crowned with success, seeing that the glass would persist in dropping from his eye at awkward moments, when, by all the laws that regulate such matters, it ought to have been most firmly fixed in its orbit.

As soon as Pod's little arrangements were completed, he opened the door, and marched boldly into the conservatory. The old gardener glared sulkily at him, as gardeners have a habit of doing when any one invades what they look upon as their private domains. But Pod, caring nothing for sulky looks, swaggered up and down the flowery aisles, making believe, glass in eye, to read the different Latin labels, as though he thoroughly understood them. Presently, he caught sight of a little group of people crossing one of the garden-paths outside. Looking more closely, he saw that one of them was Olive Deane; the others, judging from their appearance, were her two pupils and some friends of theirs.

The sight of Miss Deane seemed to surprise Mr. Piper into temporary forgetfulness both of his eye-glass and the Latin labels. He sat down in a brown study, and was still sitting, deep in thought, when, hearing one of the doors clash, he looked up and saw Miss Lloyd coming slowly towards him. "Why, here she is--her very self! And isn't she a beauty!" he muttered. "No time like the present. I'll tell her now." And with that his eye-glass and his lavender gloves were next moment smuggled safely out of sight.

Although Pod had at once recognized Eleanor, it is doubtful whether she would have recollected him had he not spoken to her.

"Beg pardon, but are you not Miss Lloyd?" he said, as she reached the spot where he was standing.

"Yes, I am Miss Lloyd," she said, with a smile, for Pod, much to his own shame and disgust, was blushing violently. "Have you anything to say to me?"

"Yes, miss, something that I should have told you long ago if you had not been away in London. You don't recollect me, but I shall never forget you. My name is Podley Piper, and I'm in Mr. Kelvin's office at Pembridge."

Had Pod been an articled clerk, instead of being the office youth he was, he could not have mentioned this fact with an air of greater dignity.

"It was you, miss, who were so kind to my mother last spring, when she was ill. You sent her wine, and jelly, and coals, and you weren't above going and seeing her yourself. She would never have come round as soon as she did if it had not been for your kindness--and I thank you for it with all my heart!"

"It is very little that you have to thank me for," replied Eleanor. "I hope your mother has had no return of her old complaint?"

"She is well and hearty, thank you, miss, and she often says that if all rich people were like you, the world would be a pleasanter place to live in than it is."

"I am glad to have seen you, and to have news of your mother," said Eleanor. "But I think you said you had something to tell me."

"Yes, miss, I have. Do you know my governor, Mr. Kelvin?"

"I have known Mr. Kelvin for several years. But why do you ask?"

"Then perhaps you know a friend of Mr. Kelvin--Mr. Pomeroy?"

"I certainly am acquainted with a gentleman of that name. But I did not know that Mr. Pomeroy was a friend of Mr. Kelvin."

"Oh, yes, but he is. It was through Mr. Kelvin that he was made secretary to Sir Thomas."

"Indeed!" said Eleanor, coldly. "But that is hardly the news you have to tell me?" Despite herself, she began to tremble a little. What was this strange-looking boy about to tell her?

"I'm coming to the news presently," said Pod. "May I ask whether Miss Olive Deane is still at Stammars?"

"Miss Deane is still here."

"Of course you know that she is Mr. Kelvin's cousin?"

"I believe I have been told so."

"Well, Miss Lloyd, one day I happened to overhear a conversation in Mr. Kelvin's office between Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy, in which your name was rather frequently mentioned."

"My name mentioned in a conversation between Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy! What could they have to say about me?"

She was trembling more than ever now, and to hide it was obliged to sit down on the chair recently vacated by Pod.

"You know, miss," said Pod, with an air of self-justification, "I am not in the habit of listening to conversations that it is not intended I should hear, and it was only the mention of your name, and a certain remark that was made about you, that made me do so in this case."

"But they could have nothing to say about me--nothing, that is, of any consequence either to you or me."

"Well, I can only say this, that neither Miss Deane nor Mr. Pomeroy mean any good to you, and I want to put you on your guard against them."

Eleanor could not speak for a moment or two. What terrible abyss was this which seemed opening at her feet?

"But what do you mean by putting me on my guard against Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy?"

"What I say is this: beware of both of them. Both of them are snakes in the grass."

"You are a very strange young man, and cannot surely know what you are saying," urged poor Eleanor. "I am quite sure that there must be a great mistake somewhere."

"No mistake whatever, miss. If I leave my situation to-morrow, I'll tell you. Mr. Pomeroy had been away from England for some time, and when he first came to my master, about four months ago, he hadn't a penny in the world."

"Possibly not," said Eleanor, coldly. "But poverty is no disgrace."

"He came to Mr. Kelvin, who had known him years before, and Kelvin lent him fifty pounds."

"Friends should always help each other. But how came you to know all this?"

"Through the conversation that I overheard between Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy.

"Really," said Eleanor, as she rose, "I fail to see in what way these details concern me. I must wish you good morning, Mr. Piper, and----"

"One moment, if you please," said Pod, earnestly. "You don't know why Mr. Pomeroy was male secretary to Sir Thomas, do you?"

"That is a point about which I have never troubled myself to think: it does not concern me."

"He was sent to Stammars that he might have a chance of marrying an heiress."

"Ah!"

"And that heiress was to be you, miss."

"Me!" Eleanor sank down in the chair again.

"Miss Deane said you were worth twenty thousand pounds, and as Mr. Pomeroy was so poor, why shouldn't he pretend to fall in love with you and marry you?"

There was a dead pause. The plashing of a tiny fountain hidden somewhere among the foliage was the only sound that broke the silence: it was a sound that will dwell in Eleanor's memory as long as she lives.

"Are you quite sure that you did not dream all this?" she said, speaking very faintly.

"Every word I tell you is as true as gospel. I took down the conversation in shorthand, and I've got my notes at home now. The grand point was this: Mr. Pomeroy was to have the place of secretary to Sir Thomas, so that he might be near you and have an opportunity of making love to you. You are not offended with me, miss?"

"Offended! oh, no; but I am sure you have made some dreadful mistake."

"I thought it only right to put you on your guard against those two--Miss Deane and Mr. Pomeroy. And there's my governor, too, he's as thick in the plot as the others. It was he who found the other one the money to buy clothes with to come here, so that he might look like a gentleman. It's your money, miss, that's the temptation," concluded Pod, philosophically. "Rich people never know who are their real friends."

Eleanor did not answer. She no longer seemed to see him, or even to be aware of his presence. There was a dumb, despairing, far-away look on her white face that filled him with awe. He felt that he dare not say another word. Leaving her there, sitting on the chair, one hand tightly interlocked in the other, staring into vacancy with wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing, he stole away on tip-toe, and presently, with a great sense of relief, found himself in the fresh air outside.