Mr. Ely's Engagement
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 12: The Rivals--New Version
When they reached Shanklin, Mr. Ely was shown into the drawing-room, while Mr. Ash disappeared upstairs.
“You wait in there,” suggested Mr. Ash; “there’s a word or two I want to say to the old lady. I want to get to the bottom of the thing, because it’s quite possible we’ve come on a wild goose chase after all. You wait half a minute, and I’ll see Miss Lily’s sent to you. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to see her come flying headlong into your arms. Then you’ll find out that it’s almost worth while to fall out for the sake of the reconciliation.”
Left alone in the drawing-room, Mr. Ely was not by any means so sure. He was inclined to be sceptical as to the young lady’s flying leap into his arms. And as to falling out for the sake of the reconciliation--well, there might be something, perhaps, in that, but he would like to have felt as sure about the reconciliation as he did about the falling out.
He seated himself on an ottoman, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and stared at his patent toes. A minute passed, more than a minute, more than five minutes, indeed, still he was left alone. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes had elapsed since he entered the room.
“This is a pretty state of things; ten living minutes have I sat stewing here! And Ash said that in less than half a minute he wouldn’t be surprised to see her in my arms. It looks like it!”
He got up and surveyed the apartment.
“I wonder where she is? And where the other fellow is? That’s the man to whom I ought to apply for information. I lay my hat that she’s done some bounding into his arms since yesterday. That’s a pleasant thought to think about the woman who’s promised to be your wife!”
Mr. Ely disconsolately paced the room.
“And to think that I paid twenty pounds for an engagement-ring! And I might have forked up forty-five! That’s what gets at me! And I’ve got Rosenbaum’s writ in my coat pocket. Damages laid at thirty thousand pounds! Oh, lor! This is a nice day’s work I’ve done!”
Pausing before the fireplace he leaned his elbow on the mantelshelf, and his head upon his hand, and groaned.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me where Miss Truscott is?” There was a voice behind him. Mr. Ely turned.
“Hallo, Ely! I had no idea that it was you! How are you, dear old man?”
Mr. Ely turned--metaphorically--into a pillar of ice. Into a pillar of red-hot ice, if we may confound our metaphors. For while his exterior demeanour was several degrees below zero, his interior economy left boiling point at the post.
A gentleman had strolled into the room through the opened window--Mr. William Summers. Mr. William Summers as large as life, and larger. There were no signs of guilt upon his countenance; certainly there were none in his bearing. He held a soft crush hat in one hand, the other he held out to Mr. Ely.
“Well, I’m--hanged!”
“I say, Ely, what’s the row?”
Speechless with indignation, Mr. Ely turned and strode towards the door. When he reached it he paused, and turning again, he gazed at the intruder. The intruder did not seem to be at all abashed.
“That’s the way they used to do it at the Coburg. Exit vanquished vice.”
“Sir!”
“That’s a little Coburg, too. They used to roll their r’s.”
Mr. Summers tugged at his beard. Retracing his steps, Mr. Ely strode on until he was in a measurable distance of Mr. Summers’s nose.
“Understand this once for all: you are a perfect stranger, sir, to me.”
“That’s all right; I thought I was. Excuse one stranger speaking to another, but could you tell me where Miss Truscott is?”
Mr. Ely gasped. “This--this beats anything I ever heard of! Mr. Summers!”
“That’s right, Ely, I’m awake. Wire in and lay me flat; I sha’n’t mind a bit.”
“In all this there may be something funny, sir, which commends it to your mind--if you have a mind--but I see nothing comic in desecrating nature’s most sacred ties and in corrupting the innocence of youth.”
“More don’t I, Ely; not the way you put it--and I couldn’t put it better if I tried.”
“Are you aware that Miss Truscott has promised to be my wife?”
“Ah, that was a mistake!”
“A mistake! What the devil do you mean?”
“You see, Ely, I’ve been in love with her a good twelve months--aye, that and more. I fell in love with her the first moment she came across my path.”
“What the dickens do I care if you’ve been in love with her twelve years? More shame you! Do you consider that a justification to the scoundrel who betrays another fellow’s wife?”
“In love with her in a sense you do not understand--in love with her with my whole life.”
“What on earth has that to do with me?”
“I have lived for her, and worked, and hoped, and dreamed, until she has grown to be the centre of my being. Does she mean all that to you?”
“What business have you to ask me such a question? When you have ruined Mrs. Jones do you put a similar inquiry to Jones? I should think Jones would feel that you were a logical sort of person if you did.”
“Ah, but here she is not your wife.”
“But she’s going to be!”
“As I live she never will.”
“Hang it, sir; don’t I tell you that she promised?”
“And don’t I tell you that was a mistake. If you will keep cool I will give you an explanation. If you decline to listen to an explanation, you must be content to realise the fact.”
“Look here, Mr. Summers, you are a sort of man with whom I have had very little to do----”
“My misfortune--not your fault.”
“But I suppose you have some idea of common decency, if you have none of honour----”
“I hope I have.”
“And I ask you if you think it’s decent, directly a woman has promised a man to be his wife, to go behind his back and induce the woman to dishonour herself and him?”
“But that is not what I have done.”
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