By Birth a Lady

“Quicker, William, quicker!” exclaimed Sir Philip at last; and the coachman lashed the horses into a gallop, but only to hasten the catastrophe that had been predicted for the chariot; for, as the horses sprang forward, and the barouche swayed again with the speed, there was a sharp crack, a swerve, a crash, and the handsome carriage was over, with the horses kicking madly, and the driver and occupants lying stunned and senseless in the muddy road.

Volume Three – Chapter Twelve.

Going Back

As the old novelists used to say, in their courtly polished style, that makes us think that they must have written with a handsome bead-work presentation pen dipped in scented ink, and held by a delicate hand clothed in a white-kid glove, “Gentle reader, we must now return to our heroine.”

In the plain English and more matter-of-fact way of the year of grace eighteen hundred and seventy, it is given to my hard steel broad-point to be dipped in the ordinary infusion of galls and copperas – rather bitty by the way, and given to turn mouldy – and then, when well-charged with the ink-rusting fluid to declare that we have a long arrear to fetch up relative to the proceedings of Ella Bedford, which could not well be told until the career of the two country families had reached the point recorded in the last chapter.

Ella’s had been a weary life at Crescent Villas, and she had had much to contend with: the evil tempers of three spoiled children, who resented every word of correction, complained to their weak mother, and enlisted her sympathy; the pettish frivolous complaints of the lady herself; and the bitter knowledge that, according to all appearances, she was being made a screen for the foolish flirting attentions of Max Bray.

At one time she was under the impression that the attentions to Mrs Marter were an excuse for obtaining the entrée of the house; but the conduct of Max was so entirely different: he spoke to her so seldom, and then in so quiet and gentlemanly a tone, that, from being watchful and distant, Ella was at length completely thrown off her guard, though there seemed no occasion now for her to trouble herself respecting the visits paid to the house.

Vain to an excess, both Mr and Mrs Marter seemed to approve highly of the visits of so distinguished a leader of the fashion; but Mr Marter had his own ideas upon the subject, telling his lady that it would be a fine thing for Miss Bedford; whereupon the weak little woman nodded and smiled.

To use a very trite expression, there was not the slightest harm in Mrs Marter; but, all the same, she adored incense and the offerings of concert and opera tickets with an escort; when, had it not been for the said escort, she could not have gone, Mr Marter being a man without, so his lady said, a single taste; but all the same we must do Mrs Marter the credit of saying that she would not have stirred an inch to have seen the finest opera in the world without Ella Bedford was of the party; and hence it followed that, willing or no, Ella’s visits to places of amusement were not very few.

But Ella was far from being at ease in her mind. She foresaw that the present state of things could not last; and during some capricious fit of Mrs Marter, when ill-temper, weakness, and petty annoyance were all employed to make her wretched, she would think that to stay out the year was a sheer impossibility. At such times, too, she would feel convinced that Max Bray was playing a part; so that, in spite of his distant respect, she became more cool and guarded in her behaviour; while, as to leaving, she determined to bear all, telling herself, with a feeling of something like despair, that, go where she would, she must be tracked. Then her thoughts turned on Charley Vining, whom she knew to have called; and, as she congratulated herself upon having escaped him – upon his having given up the quest in despair – the warm tears fell, and she knew in her heart of hearts that she was bitterly disappointed.

But it was quite right, – it was as matters should be, she thought; and she hastily dashed away the tears, little thinking that letter after letter had been sent to her, to be smiled over by Mrs Marter and Max, as the latter redirected them to the sender, telling Mrs Marter the while that she was doing an act of kindness and thoughtfulness towards the motherless girl looking to her for protection.

In fact, Max Bray most carefully flattered the self-esteem of Mrs Marter, till the foolish little woman felt herself to be a perfect paragon of matronly greatness and virtue. Mr Marter, too, was taken into their confidence upon this matter of Charley Vining’s attentions to Ella.

“Of course, Mr and Mrs Marter, you can act as you please; for you see, bai Jove! it would ill become me to be offering advice upon such a matter; but for my part, I should never let him write to her, or see her for a moment. It’s a great pity, bai Jove it is, that the young men of the present day have not better aspirations.”

“Quite agree with you, Mr Bray – I do indeed!” said Mr Marter, while his lady smiled her approbation.

“You see, bai Jove! it hardly becomes me, as a near neighbour, to say anything against Vining: but I know as a fact that he worried the poor girl till she was obliged to leave Mrs Brandon’s, the lady’s, you know, where she went to last; and when a man has behaved, bai Jove! shabbily to another man’s own sister, bai Jove! it’s enough to make another man speak!”

“Very true, Mr Bray – very true. I quite agree with you,” said Mr Marter, in a satisfied air.

“But, there, bai Jove! don’t let me come hyar dictating to you. It’s like my dooced confounded impudence to say a word. I’m only too grateful to find a welcome, and a little refined female society; for to a man situated as I am, London is a very dreary place. One can get amongst set after set of fellows, and into plenty of inane fashionable drawing-rooms; but, bai Jove! Mr Marter, that isn’t the sort of thing, if I may be allowed to say so, that a man of soul thirsts after. He wants something to satisfy his brain – something that when he’s spent an evening, he can go and lay his head down upon his pillow, bai Jove! and say to himself, ‘Look here, bai Jove! old fellow: you’ve been out this evening; you’ve been in refined and improving society; and, bai Jove! here you are, just as you ought to be at the end of another day – a better man, bai Jove!’”

“Ah, Saint Clair,” sighed Mrs Marter, “if you could only say that of a night!”

“To be sure,” said Max, “mai dear fellow, you’ve no idea how much better you feel – you haven’t indeed; but, bai Jove! we must change the conversation.”

With all due modesty on his part, Max changed the conversation; for just then Ella, in obedience to orders, entered the room, playing pianoforte piece after piecer till the hour for Mr Bray’s departure, when – was she deceived? or was that a quiet firm pressure of the hand he was bestowing upon her at parting?

The next minute he had gone, and Ella felt a strange shiver pass through her; for if there had been any mistake about the pressure of the hand, there could have been none concerning the look which followed.

“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max, as he sought a cab on his departure, “how confoundedly slow! But it’s nearly ripe at last!”

Then to make up for the slowness, Max Bray had himself driven to a highly genteel tavern in Saint James’s, where the society was decidedly fast; so that, on returning about three to his apartments, and laying his head upon his pillow, the slow and the fast society must have balanced one another; for he snored very pleasantly, no doubt feeling a better man, bai Jove!

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.

Rather Close

“Bai Jove, Mrs Marter, it does a man good to see you,” said Max Bray, sauntering one afternoon into the Marter drawing-room, carefully dressed, as a matter of course, and with a choice Covent-garden exotic in his button-hole. “I declare it makes one quite disgusted with the flowers one buys, it does, bai Jove!” and then showing his white teeth, he raised her hand, touched the extreme tips of her nails with his lips, and then resigned the hand, which fell gracefully upon the side of the couch. “Bai Jove, Marter, I envy you – I do, bai Jove! You’re one of the lucky ones of this earth, only you don’t know it: feast of reason, flow of soul, and all that sort of thing’s blooming, if I may say so, upon your own premises.”

“I’m sure,” simpered Mrs Marter, “there ought to be a new official made at the palace – Court flatterer – and Mr Bray given the post.”

“Wouldn’t be amiss, if there was a good salary,” said Mr Marter, looking up from his newspaper.

“Bai Jove, now, that’s too bad – ’tis indeed, bai Jove! There are some of you people get so hardened by contact with the world, that, bai Jove! you’ve no more faith in a fler’s sincerity than if there wasn’t such a thing to be found anywhere.”

“O! but,” simpered Mrs Marter, “do you think we can’t tell when you are sincere?”

“Bai Jove, no!” said Max earnestly, and with a wonderful deal of truth. “But look here: I’ve got tickets for Her Majesty’s to-night – three, you know – for La Figlia. You’ll go, of course, Marter?”

“Go to an opera!” said Mr Marter, with a shake of the head. “I never go to operas – I only go to sleep.”

“O, bai Jove! that’s too bad!” cried Max. “You’ve never been with us anywhere yet; and I do think you ought to go for once in a way.”

“No, I sha’n’t go!” said Mr Marter; “and besides, I have promised to dine out. Take Miss Bedford.”

“Bother Miss Bedford! Bai Jove, one can’t stir without your governess. I say, Marter, do go!”

“Can’t, I tell you; and, besides, I shouldn’t go, if I had no engagement,” said Mr Marter testily. “You three can go if you like.”

Max Bray seemed rather put out by the refusal, and for a time it almost appeared as if he were about to throw the stall tickets behind the fire; but by degrees he cooled down, and after it had been decided that he was to call for the ladies about half-past seven, he rose to leave.

“But why not have an early dinner here?” said Mr Marter.

“No, bai Jove, no!” said Max. “I’m always here; and besides, I’ve some business to attend to. Till half-past seven, then —au revoir.”

Max kissed the tips of his gloves to Mrs Marter as he left the room; and soon after he was being driven to his chambers, where he wrote a long letter to Laura, sent it by special messenger, and then sat impatiently waiting for an answer, gnawing his nails the while.

The reply came at last, very short and enigmatical, but it was sufficient to make him draw a long breath, as if of satisfaction, though the words were only —

“Yes! No more; for we are going out.”

Then Max Bray lit a cigar, and sat thinking over the events of the past few days, and of what he had done. He had been several times to the Marters’; he had run down, on the previous day, to Lexville; and a couple of days before that he had posted a letter, the reply to which he now anxiously awaited.

What time would it come? He kept referring to his watch, and then he went over and over again the arrangements for some project he evidently had in view, before sauntering off to his club and dining; when, to his great delight, upon his returning to dress for the evening’s engagement, he found a couple of letters awaiting him, one of which he tore open, and then threw into the fire with an impatient “Pish!” the other he took up and examined carefully, reading the several postmarks, and then, smiling as he glanced at the round legal writing, placed it unopened in his breast-pocket.

There was a strange exultant look in Max Bray’s eye as he drew on his white-kid gloves that evening, and started for the residence of Mrs Saint Clair Marter, where he found the ladies ready, and did not scruple to behave almost rudely to Ella as he prepared to take them down, hardly condescending to speak to her; but as the evening wore on, and they were seated in front of the orchestra, he condescended to make to her a few remarks, more than one of which drew forth a smile, from their satirical nature, as, evidently in a bitter spirit, he drew attention to the various eccentricities of dress in their neighbourhood.

Max Bray did not know, though, that within a few yards sat the man whom he had again and again maligned; neither did Ella Bedford divine that a pair of blood-shot eyes were gazing upon her almost fiercely, as she turned from time to time to respond to the remarks of Max, who talked on, till, towards the end of the opera, he stood up to direct his opera-glass here and there, for indulgence in that graceful, truly refined, nineteenth-century act, so much in vogue at the higher-class places of entertainment.

He had tried in three or four different directions; but, perhaps from being in a satirical mood, he did not see a single face to attract his attention, till, concluding with a grand sweep of the best tier, he suddenly stopped short, kept the glass tightly to his eyes, whisked round swiftly, and sat down; for the field of the glass had for the moment been filled by the figures of Mrs Bray and Sir Philip Vining.

“Bai Jove!” muttered Max to himself; and had Charley Vining and Laura been there all the evening, close behind him? They must have been, and be sitting now at the back of the private box. Bai Jove! what should he do? It was horrible to have gone so far – so near – and then to have all spoiled! What an ass he must have been! Laura had said that they were going out; but who would have thought that they were coming here?

Max sat rigidly still for the rest of the evening, encouraging Mrs Marter to stay through the ballet; and at last, cautiously peering round, he found, to his great satisfaction, that the private box occupied by the Brays was empty.

Ella had not seen who was so near, for she was calm and unmoved.

“Bai Jove, what an escape!” thought Max; and a cold chill ran through him – one that would have been more icy, had he known how close they had been to a rencontre. But there was still another peril – Charley Vining might be waiting yet, and she would see him!

They reached the fly, however, uninterrupted, and Max Bray’s spirits rose; but, though he stayed to a late meal – half-tea, half-supper – at Crescent Villas, he was more distant than ever in his behaviour to Ella – so distant, indeed, that Mrs Marter was half-disposed to ask him if Miss Bedford had given him any offence.

It was past one when Max departed; and, hardly knowing why, Ella went to her bed that night tearful and sad, little thinking that it was a pillow she would never again press.

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.

The Bearer of Tidings

Nine o’clock the next – or rather, by the way in which we calculate time, calling by the same title the hours of obscurity and those of sunshine, the same – morning, Mr and Mrs Marter were not down, nor likely to be for some time; but Ella was just rising from the schoolroom breakfast-table, where she had partaken of a pleasant meal of extremely weak tea, sweetened with moist sugar of a fine treacley odour, and thick bread, plastered with rank, tubby, salt butter. The meal had gone off more quietly than usual, – no one had upset any tea, neither had the youngest child turned her delicate hand and arm, as was much her custom, into a catapult, for the purpose of hurling bread-and-butter at her sisters. Certainly, this young lady had made one snatch at the butter, lying lumpy and yellow upon a plate, and had succeeded in grasping it, as was shown by the traces of her fingers; but when admonished therefor, and threatened with long tasks, she had only howled for five minutes, and had not, as was her wont, thrown herself upon her back upon the floor, and screamed until she was black in the face.

“Mr Bray wants to see you, miss,” said a housemaid, entering the schoolroom, the footman not being dressed at so early an hour.

“To see me?” ejaculated Ella.

“Yes, miss; he says he wants to see you pertickler, and he’s now waiting in the dining-room.”

“Is Mrs Marter down yet?” said Ella, troubled at this unusual call, and at such a strange hour.

“No, miss; nor won’t be for long enough.”

“Ask Mr Bray if he would be kind enough to call again at twelve,” said Ella, after a few moments’ thought. “I am engaged now with the children.”

“Yes, miss,” said the girl; and she departed, to return at the end of five minutes, with a card bearing in pencil:

“If you value your peace of mind, come to me. I have a letter for you from the country. A case of life or death!”

“Mrs Brandon must be ill,” thought Ella; and hurriedly leaving the room, she stood the next minute face to face with Max, who was very pale, as he respectfully held out his hand, which was, however, unnoticed.

“Miss Bedford,” he said softly, “I fear that my visits have always been associated with that which was to you unpleasant, from the fact, though, that you did not know my real nature. This visit will, I fear, be only another that shall add to the dislike you entertain for me, but which of late you have so kindly disguised.”

Ella did not speak, but stood watching him eagerly.

“You know I was late home last night. I found there this letter, delivered evidently by the late post, and you will guess my emotion when you read it. I came back here; but I could not get a cab, and it was half-past two when I reached the house. If I had roused you, nothing could have been done, while now a calm night’s rest has made you better prepared. So I returned to lie down upon the sofa for a few hours’ rest, meaning to be here as soon as the house was opened; but – I am almost ashamed to tell it – I slept heavily from the effects of my long walk, and did not wake till eight. Can you bear to read it?” he said gently.

“Yes, yes,” cried Ella huskily; and she took a formal-looking letter, that had evidently been hurriedly torn open. She glanced at the address – to “Maximilian Bray, Esq., 109 Bury-street, Saint James’s, London.” The postmark, two days old, Penzance, while the London mark was of the day before. “Am I to read this?” she said, without raising her eyes.

“Yes,” he said gently; and he turned away from her, but only to go to the mantelpiece and cover his eyes with his hands, where it was quite possible that he might have been able to see, by means of the mirror, every act of the trembling girl.

Ella drew out a folded letter from the envelope, when a smaller one fell to the ground, addressed to her in the same hand as that in which the larger letter was written.

The characters seemed to run together as she opened this second envelope, took out a little folded note in another hand, read it, and then for a few moments the room seemed to swim round. But by an effort she mastered her emotion, re-read the note, and then hastily perused the letter through and through before doubling both together, and standing white and trembling, clutching the papers tightly as she gazed straight before her at vacancy.

There was no cry, no display of wild excitement; nothing but those white quivering lips and the drawn despairing look, to show the agony suffered by that heart, till she started back, as it were, into life, when Max turned softly and stood before her.

“Miss Bedford,” he said gently, “I will not trouble you with words of commiseration. I must go now to make preparations.”

“Preparations?” she said, as if not understanding his remark.

“Yes; preparations. I telegraphed to Lexville as I came; and now I must go, for I shall run down by the express. There will be no time saved if I start earlier.”

“You are going?” said Ella dreamily.

“Yes,” he said almost angrily, “of course! Do you take me to be utterly devoid of feeling? But you will write, and I will be the bearer.”

“Write!” said Ella, with a wild hysterical sob – “write!”

“Yes. Surely you will do that,” he said anxiously.

“Heaven help me!” cried Ella. “I must go.”

“You will go?” he said excitedly.

“Yes,” she said, with a strange dreamy look; “it is my fate. I must go.”

“Ella – Miss Bedford – will you trust me?” said Max in an earnest voice. “Leave matters to me, and I will arrange all. But Mrs Marter will object to your leaving.”

“I must go,” said Ella, who seemed to be speaking as if under some strange influence.

“You will go in spite of her wishes?” said Max.

“Yes, yes; I must go,” said Ella huskily; and raising her hands to her face, she would have left the room.

Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen.

Hovering round the Snare

“Stop, stop!” said Max hoarsely. “We must have no scene with that weak woman. I will be in waiting by the park entrance of the Colosseum with a cab at four. Meet me there. The train leaves Paddington at 4:50. But do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said, speaking as if in a dream.

“Do you understand? At the Colosseum at four, without fail.”

“Yes,” said Ella again abstractedly, as he held her cold hand in his, her face being turned towards the door.

“But mind this,” he said, “this is no time for child’s-play. If you are not there soon after the time named, I must catch the train, and I dare not wait. If you are not there, I go alone!”

“Do you think I could fail?” said Ella, turning upon him her sweet candid countenance. “I will be there.”

Was Max Bray ashamed of his face, that he held it down as he hurried from the house? Perhaps not; but he was evidently much excited, for he muttered half aloud, as if running over certain plans that he had arranged for a particular end.

“Could it be right? Was it all true?” Ella asked herself, when alone in her bedroom, with the sense of a deep unutterable misery crushing her; and once more she read the letters she had retained.

“O yes, it was too true, too true! But what was she about to do? To accompany the man she mistrusted, the man she dreaded? He had been trusted, though, before now; and of late, too, his conduct had been so different – he had even seemed to dislike her. Still, under any other circumstances, she would not have gone; but at such a time, in answer to such an appeal, how could she stay?”

Her brain was in a whirl, and she could not reason quietly. She only knew now the depth of love she felt, and urged by that love, everything else seemed little and of no import.

Hours must have passed, when, after sending twice to Mrs Marter, she received that lady’s gracious permission to wait upon her.

“I should have sent for you before long – as soon as I felt that I could bear it, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Marter – “to demand some explanation of your receiving visitors early in the morning without my consent. I understand that somewhere about seven o’clock – ”

“I believe the clock had struck nine,” said Ella quietly.

“Seven, or eight, or nine, or ten, it’s all the same!” exclaimed Mrs Marter angrily. “Pray, Miss Bedford, what did Mr Bray want here this morning? Was it supposed that I should not know of the visit?”

“Mr Bray came to tell me of the illness of a very dear friend,” said Ella pitifully; “and now I come to ask your consent to absent myself for a few days.”

“Of course, I might have known that that was coming! Certainly not, Miss Bedford! And until I have communicated with Mrs Brandon, I desire you do not leave the house. What next, I wonder?”

“Mr Bray brought me letters. It is a matter of life and death!” said Ella earnestly. “Surely, madam, in such a case you will not refuse me?”

“And pray who is it that is ill?” said Mrs Marter sneeringly.

Ella was silent. She could not have spoken then, in spite of every effort, even to have saved her life.

“I can see through it all! I am not blind!” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “I shall certainly not give my consent, Miss Bedford. It is a planned affair, and I have been deceived. Now leave the room.”

Ella would have spoken, but she felt that it would have been without avail; and hurrying out, she once more sought her own chamber.

What did Mrs Marter mean? What was planned? Impossible! She had the proof in those letters. And once more she read them with beating heart before asking herself whether she would be doing right or wrong.

What had she promised? To meet Max Bray at four – to trust herself to his guidance. What had she to fear? Surely scheming baseness could never go so low! But it was absurd! She had those letters, and did she not know the handwriting?