ellen met sir isaac—in the days before he was sir isaac—at the house of a school friend with whom she was staying at hythe, and afterwards her mother and sister came down and joined her for a fortnight at a folkstone boarding house. mr. harman had caught a chill while inspecting his north wales branches and had come down with his mother to recuperate. he and his mother occupied a suite of rooms in the most imposing hotel upon the leas. ellen's friend's people were partners in a big flour firm and had a pleasant new æsthetic white and green house of rough-cast and slates in the pretty country beyond the hythe golf links, and ellen's friend's father was deeply anxious to develop amiable arrangements with mr. harman. there was much tennis, much croquet, much cycling to the hythe sea-wall and bathing from little tents and sitting about in the sunshine, and mr. harman had his first automobile with him—they were still something of a novelty in those days—and was urgent to take picnic parties to large lonely places on the downs.
there were only two young men in that circle, one was engaged to ellen's friend's sister, and the other was bound to a young woman remote in italy; neither was strikingly attractive and both regarded harman with that awe tempered by undignified furtive derision which wealth and business capacity so often inspire in the young male. at first he was quiet and simply looked at her, as it seemed any one might look, then she perceived he looked at her intently and continuously, and was persistently close to her and seemed always to be trying to do things to please her and attract her attention. and then from the general behaviour of the women about her, her mother and mrs. harman and her friend's mother and her friend's sister, rather than from any one specific thing they said, it grew upon her consciousness that this important and fabulously wealthy person, who was also it seemed to her so modest and quiet and touchingly benevolent, was in love with her.
"your daughter," said mrs. harman repeatedly to mrs. sawbridge, "is charming, perfectly charming."
"she's such a child," said mrs. sawbridge repeatedly in reply.
and she told ellen's friend's mother apropos of ellen's friend's engagement that she wanted all her daughters to marry for love, she didn't care what the man had so long as they loved each other, and meanwhile she took the utmost care that isaac had undisputed access to the girl, was watchfully ready to fend off anyone else, made her take everything he offered and praised him quietly and steadily to her. she pointed out how modest and unassuming he was, in spite of the fact that he was "controlling an immense business" and in his own particular trade "a perfect napoleon."
"for all one sees to the contrary he might be just a private gentleman. and he feeds thousands and thousands of people...."
"sooner or later," said mrs. harman, "i suppose isaac will marry. he's been such a good son to me that i shall feel it dreadfully, and yet, you know, i wish i could see him settled. then i shall settle—in a little house of my own somewhere. just a little place. i don't believe in coming too much between son and daughter-in-law...."
harman's natural avidity was tempered by a proper modesty. he thought ellen so lovely and so infinitely desirable—and indeed she was—that it seemed incredible to him that he could ever get her. and yet he had got most of the things in life he had really and urgently wanted. his doubts gave his love-making an eager, lavish and pathetic delicacy. he watched her minutely in an agony of appreciation. he felt ready to give or promise anything.
she was greatly flattered by his devotion and she liked the surprises and presents he heaped upon her extremely. also she was sorry for him beyond measure. in the deep recesses of her heart was an oleographic ideal of a large brave young man with blue eyes, a wave in his fair hair, a wonderful tenor voice and—she could not help it, she tried to look away and not think of it—a broad chest. with him she intended to climb mountains. so clearly she could not marry mr. harman. and because of that she tried to be very kind indeed to him, and when he faltered that she could not possibly care for him, she reassured him so vaguely as to fill him with wild gusts of hope and herself with a sense of pledges. he told her one day between two sets of tennis—which he played with a certain tricky skill—that he felt that the very highest happiness he could ever attain would be to die at her feet. presently her pity and her sense of responsibility had become so large and deep that the dream hero with the blue eyes was largely overlaid and hidden by them.
then, at first a little indirectly and then urgently and with a voice upon the edge of tears, harman implored her to marry him. she had never before in the whole course of her life seen a grown-up person on the very verge of tears. she felt that the release of such deep fountains as that must be averted at any cost. she felt that for a mere schoolgirl like herself, a backward schoolgirl who had never really mastered quadratics, to cause these immense and tragic distresses was abominable. she was sure her former headmistress would disapprove very highly of her. "i will make you a queen," said harman, "i will give all my life to your happiness."
she believed he would.
she refused him for the second time but with a weakening certainty in a little white summer-house that gave a glimpse of the sea between green and wooded hills. she sat and stared at the sea after he had left her, through a mist of tears; so pitiful did he seem. he had beaten his poor fists on the stone table and then caught up her hand, kissed it and rushed out.... she had not dreamt that love could hurt like that.
and all that night—that is to say for a full hour before her wet eyelashes closed in slumber—she was sleepless with remorse for the misery she was causing him.
the third time when he said with suicidal conviction that he could not live without her, she burst into tears of pity and yielded. and instantly, amazingly, with the famished swiftness of a springing panther he caught her body into his arms and kissed her on the lips....
4
they were married with every circumstance of splendour, with very expensive music, and portraits in the illustrated newspapers and a great glitter of favours and carriages. the bridegroom was most thoughtful and generous about the sawbridge side of the preparations. only one thing was a little perplexing. in spite of his impassioned impatience he delayed the wedding. full of dark hints and a portentous secret, he delayed the wedding for twenty-five whole days in order that it should follow immediately upon the publication of the birthday honours list. and then they understood.
"you will be lady harman," he exulted; "lady harman. i would have given double.... i have had to back the old country gazette and i don't care a rap. i'd have done anything. i'd have bought the rotten thing outright.... lady harman!"
he remained loverlike until the very eve of their marriage. then suddenly it seemed to her that all the people she cared for in the world were pushing her away from them towards him, giving her up, handing her over. he became—possessive. his abjection changed to pride. she perceived that she was going to be left tremendously alone with him, with an effect, as if she had stepped off a terrace on to what she believed to be land and had abruptly descended into very deep water....
and while she was still feeling quite surprised by everything and extremely doubtful whether she wanted to go any further with this business, which was manifestly far more serious, out of all proportion more serious, than anything that had ever happened to her before—and unpleasant, abounding indeed in crumpling indignities and horrible nervous stresses, it dawned upon her that she was presently to be that strange, grown-up and preoccupied thing, a mother, and that girlhood and youth and vigorous games, mountains and swimming and running and leaping were over for her as far as she could see for ever....
both the prospective grandmothers became wonderfully kind and helpful and intimate, preparing with gusto and an agreeable sense of delegated responsibility for the child that was to give them all the pride of maternity again and none of its inconveniences.
