The Mysterious Mr. Miller

And she was mine – still my own!

Strange that this sudden happiness was actually the sequel of a tragedy!

“It is really delightful to be back here again,” she remarked to Lucie, glancing round the room. “How well I remember the old days when, in the holidays, I came and stayed with you. Nothing has changed. The dear old place is just the same.”

“Yes,” replied Lucie. “I only wish we lived here more. But father and I are always abroad – always moving from place to place through France, Germany, Spain, Italy, just as the fit takes us. Nowadays, dear old dad is really like the Jew-errant. He can’t remain more than a few days in one place – can you, dad?” she asked, laughing across at him.

“No, my dear,” was his response in a strange voice. “I must travel – travel – always travel. To keep moving is part of my nature, I believe.”

“Only fancy! he’s here in England!” she remarked to Ella. “It’s really wonderful!”

While this conversation was in progress I was afraid that old Miss Miller might refer to my call upon her; but fortunately she either did not catch my name when introduced, or did not connect me with her mysterious visitor.

The owner of Studland Manor was, I saw, somewhat uneasy when his daughter began to explain how constantly they travelled. He seemed a little annoyed that Lucie should tell us that they were constantly moving, instead of living quietly by the Mediterranean outside Leghorn, as he would have me believe.

The old-fashioned Empire clock beneath its glass shade, standing on the chimney-piece, struck eleven, and I rose resolutely to take my leave. I had expressed pleasure at my new-found happiness, shook hands all round, and asked leave to call on the morrow.

“Certainly – most certainly,” answered Miller, in that breezy manner that he had sometimes assumed towards me on our last meeting. He was essentially a man of moods, sometimes brooding and strange, at others full of buoyant good-humour, “You are always welcome here, remember. Perhaps you’ll dine with us – just pot-luck – at seven to-morrow night? I don’t expect you get much that’s worth eating down at the ‘Lion’. We’ll induce Ella to stay over to-morrow, eh?”

My love protested that she would be compelled to return to Swanage in the morning, but we would not hear of it.

Then Miller, with a delicacy which further showed that he had taken a fancy to me, suggested that Ella might, perhaps, like to accompany me as far as the lodge-gates, and a few moments later I went forth with my love into the darkness.

For the first hundred paces, until we entered the black shadows of the old beech hedge, we walked hand-in-hand, uttering no single word.

After that long interval of mourning and black despair, I was again at her side – alone. I was beside myself for very joy.

We halted. It seemed an almost involuntary action. Then taking her tenderly in my arms I pressed my lips to hers in a first long passionate caress.

“My love!” I murmured, with heart overflowing, “my dearest love – you for whom I have mourned, and whose dear memory I have ever revered – God has given you back to me. We have met again – you have been given to me from the grave, never to part – never —never!”

To my blank amazement she turned her pale white face from mine, without reciprocating my passionate kisses. She sighed, and a shiver ran through her slight frame. Her lips were cold, and with her hands she pushed me from her with averted face.

“Ella!” I gasped, holding her, and looking into her fine eyes, though I could see no expression there, so dark was it. “Ella! Darling, may I not at least kiss you welcome on your return to me? Are you not mine – my own?”

She made no response, only pushing me farther from her very firmly, although I felt that her tiny hands trembled. She was overcome with emotion, which she was in vain striving to suppress.

I held my breath – startled at her sudden and unaccountable change of manner. My heart was bursting. What did it mean?

“Speak, dearest!” I implored. “Tell me the reason of this? Are you not still my love? Are you not mine – as you were in the old days?”

Slowly she shook her head, and in a faltering voice, hoarse and low, responded: —

“No, Godfrey! After to-night we must never again meet. Forgive me, but I thought you had long ago forgotten me as utterly worthless.”

“I have never forgotten, darling. You are my own dear Ella, as always. Therefore we are now inseparable – we shall meet again.”

“Impossible!” she declared decisively in that same hard tone, her voice so entirely changed. “I am no longer your love, Godfrey. I may as well confess to you the bitter truth at once —I am another’s!”

Chapter Fifteen

Betrays some Hidden Intrigue

I fell back at Ella’s words, as though I had received a blow full in the chest.

“You – you are married!” I gasped.

“No – not yet,” was her low answer, in the same blank, mechanical voice.

“Then you love another man!” I cried fiercely.

“In a month’s time I am to be married.”

“But you shall not, Ella!” I exclaimed quickly and determinedly. “You are mine. Surely I have a prior claim to you! You loved me in the old days – you surely cannot deny that!”

“I do not deny it, Godfrey,” she said, in that same sweet, soft voice that had so long rung in my ears. “Unfortunately I did not know that you still retained any affection for me. I made inquiries, but no one knew where you were, except that you were always abroad. For aught I knew you might already be married. Therefore, I am not altogether to blame.”

“Who is the man?” I asked, with a fierce jealousy rising within me. Was this fellow, whoever he might be, to rob me, after all, of my love, whom I had so fortunately rediscovered?

“I regret it, but I cannot tell you his name.”

“Not tell me his name!” I cried. “Why not? What mystery need there be if you are to be married?”

“I have promised to say nothing until we are man and wife,” she answered. “You alone, Godfrey, have I told because – well, because I dare not again deceive you.”

“Then you still love me!” I exclaimed quickly. “Confess the truth.”

“What is the use of discussing affection?” she asked. “The die is cast. At the very moment when we meet again after this long separation, we find ourselves debarred from happiness. We can never become man and wife.”

“Why not?”

“Because I must marry this man.”

“Must?”

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely.

“But you were in that position regarding Blumenthal,” I remarked, much puzzled. In the darkness I could not distinguish the expression of her countenance, but from her voice I knew that she was in desperation, and that she was actually telling me a hideous truth.

“Misfortune seems to follow upon me,” was her somewhat enigmatical answer.

“Then be frank with me, Ella. This man whom you will not name is forcing you to marry him.”

She was, however, silent. Either she feared to commit herself, or she was reflecting upon how much she dare tell me.

I heard her breath going and coming in quick gasps, and I could distinguish that her pointed chin had sunk upon her chest in an attitude of deep dejection.

“Why not tell me everything, darling?” I went on, hoping to persuade her to confess. “Remember what I am to you; remember that our lives have for so long been linked together, that ever in these years of our separation you have been mine always, in heart and soul. I have smiled upon no other woman but your own sweet self, and never once has my heart been stirred by the zephyr of love since that dark wet night when we parted in London, and I went forth into the wide grey ocean of despair. Ella, you – ”