The guests waited in the drawing-room. Madam, with gracious suavity, was bestowing her smiles on all, after her manner in society, her white silk dress gleaming with richness. A slight frown crossed her brow, however, at the tardy entrance of her son and Richard North.
"We have waited for you," she said rather sharply. "Dinner has been announced."
Richard found his father did not intend to be present, and that he must act as host, which was nothing new. Glancing round the room, he was advancing to Miss Dallory--there was no married lady present excepting madam--when madam's voice rang out cold and clear.
"Take in Miss Field, Richard. Arthur, you will conduct Miss Dallory."
Now that was wrong according to the rules of etiquette. Miss Dallory, the great heiress, whose family was of some note in the county, should have fallen to Richard: Miss Field, a middle-aged lady, had only been Matilda North's governess. But madam had a way of enforcing her own commands: or, rather, of letting people know they might not be disputed. There was a moment's awkwardness: Richard and Arthur both stood with arrested footsteps; and then each advanced to the appointed lady. But Miss Dallory nearly upset it all: she turned from Captain Bohun to Richard, her hand outstretched.
"How do you do, Mr. North?"
He clasped it for a moment. Madam, who had a shrewd way of making guesses, and of seeing things that no one else saw, had gathered an idea long ago, that had Richard North's fortunes been in the ascendant, he might have forgotten the wide gulf separating him from Mary Dallory--she patrician-born, he plebeian--and asked her to step over it.
"I did not know you had returned, Miss Dallory, until a few minutes age," said Richard.
"No! I have been home two days."
They parted. Madam was sweeping on to the dining-room on the arm of a Colonel Carter, whose acquaintance she had made at Homburg, and the rest had to follow. Richard brought up the rear with Miss Field.
Miss Dallory, a rather tall and graceful girl of two-and-twenty, sat between Arthur Bohun and Richard North. She was not particularly handsome, but very pleasing. A fair-complexioned face with plenty of good sense in it, grey eyes rather deeply set, and soft dark-brown hair. Her manners were remarkably open: her speech independent. It was this perhaps--the pleasantness of the speech and manner--that made her a favourite with every one.
The Dallorys were very wealthy. There were three of them: Miss Dallory and her two brothers, John and Frank, both older than herself. They had been left orphans at an early age: their father's will having bequeathed his property almost equally amongst the three; the portion of it entailed on his elder son lay in another county. To the surprise of many people, it was found that he had left Dallory Hall to his daughter; so that, in point of fact, this Miss Dallory, sitting at Mr. North's dinner-table, was owner of the house. It had been the residence of the Dallorys during Mr. Dallory's lifetime: after his death, the trustees let it on lease to Mr. North. The lease had been purchased, so that Mr. North had no rent to pay for it. The lease, however, had now all but terminated. Madam hoped to be able to get it renewed: perhaps that might be one of the reasons why she was now paying court to Mary Dallory. That young lady came into her property when she was one-and-twenty; and all power lay in her own hands. Nearly two years ago Miss Dallory had gone on the Continent with her aunt, Mrs. Leasom. Illness had prolonged Mrs. Leasom's stay there, and they had only just returned. Mrs. Leasom remained at her home in London; Miss Dallory came down at once to her younger brother's house--an extremely pretty place just beyond the Ham.
Dinner progressed. Miss Dallory talked chiefly to Richard, next to whom she sat; Arthur Bohun, on the other side, was rather silent and glum. She was telling them of her travels: and jestingly complaining of finding what she called a grand dinner, when she had thought Mrs. North was only bringing her to dine en famille. For her dress was nothing but a coloured muslin.
"Don't laugh at me, Mr. Richard North. If you had been living in a remote village of Switzerland for months, dining off bonilli and a tough chicken in your aunt's chamber, you would think this grandeur itself."
"I did not laugh," answered Richard. "It is a great deal grander than I like."
"Where is Mr. North?" she asked, slightly lowering her voice.
Richard shook his head. "The grandeur, as you call it, has tired him, Miss Dallory. He dines almost always in his own room: I join him as often as I can."
"I hear he is breaking," she continued, her deep grey eyes looking straight at Richard, pity and concern in their depths. "Frank says so."
"He is breaking sadly. The prolonged strain is too much for him."
Madam glanced down the table, and spoke in sharp tones.
"Are you attending to Miss Field, Richard?"
Miss Field was on his left hand: Miss Dallory on his right.
"Yes, madam. She heard," added he to Miss Dallory, scarcely moving his lips.
"And it was high treason, I suppose," rejoined that young lady, confidentially. "There have been changes in your home, Mr. Richard, since I was last here. Mr. North's first children were all in it, then."
"And now two of them have gone out of it. Bessy to another home: Edmund to--his last one."
"Ah, I heard all. How sad it must have been for you and Mr. North! John and Frank wrote me word that they followed him to the grave."
"Very sad for him as well as for us," assented Richard. "But he is better off."
"Who sent that wicked letter?"
Richard North dropped his glance on his plate as he answered, apparently intent on what was there. Miss Dallory's keen eyes had been on his: and she used to read a great deal that lay within them.
"There has been no discovery at all."
"It was thought to be Mr. Timothy Wilks, I believe."
"It was certainly not he," said Richard, rather hastily.
"No! He had at least something to do with the mischief, if he did not write the letter."
"Yes. But without intending evil. The next to leave the home here may be myself," he added.
"You!"
"Of course you have heard that our works are at a standstill? The men have struck."
"That's old news: I heard it in Switzerland."
"If we are not able to reopen them--and I begin to think we shall not be--I must go out into the world and seek employment elsewhere."
"Nonsense!"
"If you reflect for a moment, you will see that it is all sober earnest, Miss Dallory. When a man does not possess the means of living, he must work for one."
She said no more then. And when she spoke again the subject was changed.
"Is Bessy's marriage a happy one?"
"Very--as it seems to me. The worst is, Rane gets on as badly as ever in his profession."
"But why does he?"
"I know not. Except that madam undoubtedly works--always works--to keep him down."
"How wrong it is! He shall come and attend me. I will get up some headaches on purpose."
Richard laughed.
"We have had changes also, since you and I met," resumed Miss Dallory. "But not sad ones. I have become my own mistress in the world; am independent of every one. And Frank has taken up his abode at Ham Court for a permanency."
"I hope you intend to make a good use of your independence," said Richard, gravely.
"Of course. And I shallbeindependent; you may rely on that."
"We heard it rumoured some time ago that you were likely to lose your independence, Miss Dallory."
"I! In what way?"
"By getting married."
Their eyes met for a moment, and then dropped. Miss Dallory laughed lightly.
"Did the news penetrate as far as this? Well, it never was 'likely,' Mr. Richard North. A--gentleman asked me; but I had reason to suppose that he wanted my money more than he did myself, and so--nothing came of it."
"Who was he?"
"It would not be fair to tell you."
"Thank you for correcting me," spoke Richard, in his earnest way. "I ought to feel shame for asking. I beg your pardon; and his."
Happening to glance at the young lady, he saw that her face had turned crimson. A rare thing for Miss Dallory. She was too self-possessed to display emotion on light occasions.
"Have you seen Ham Court lately?" she resumed, looking up; the blushes making her very pretty.
"Not since your brother came to it. He has not been here long, you know. I called one day, but they said Mr. Dallory was out."
"The place is very nice now. He has made alterations, and done it up beautifully. You must come again."
"With pleasure," answered Richard. "How long shall you remain with him?"
"As long as he will have me. I am not going away yet. I shall make it my home. Frank has quiet tastes, and so have I: and we intend to live a Darby and Joan life together, and grow into an old maid and an old bachelor."
Richard smiled. "How is it Francis did not come with you this evening?"
"May I dare to tell you why?" she whispered. "When we saw madam's carriage driving up, Frank disappeared. 'Say I am out,' was his order to me. He and madam never got on well: as a little boy he was terribly afraid of her, and I think the feeling has lasted. When I went to put my bonnet on, I found him shut up in his room. He wished me joy of my visit, and promised to come and walk home with me in the evening."
Madam rose from table early. Something in the arrangements did not seem to suit her. It was a warm and lovely evening, and they went out on the lawn. Miss Dallory slipped round the corner of the house to the window of Mr. North's parlour.
It stood open and he sat just within it. Sat with his hands on his knees, and his head drooping. Miss Dallory started: not so much because his face was thin and worn, but at its hopeless expression. In her two years' absence, he seemed to have aged ten.
She stepped over the threshold, and gently laid her hands on his. He looked up as a man bewildered.
"Why--it--it cannot be Mary Dallory."
"It is Mary Dallory; come home at last. Won't you kiss me, dear Mr. North?"
He kissed her fondly. In the old days, when John North was supposed to be the most rising man, in a commercial point of view, in the county, Mr. Dallory had thought it worth while to court his friendship, and Mr. North had been asked to stand godfather to his little girl. Mary--after she lost her own parents--was wont to say she belonged to the Hall, and often would be there. Her aunt, Mrs. Leasom, who had been a Miss Dallory once, was left guardian to the children, with Ham Court as her residence until the younger son should be of age, to whom it would then lapse. But Mrs. Leasom spent a large portion of her time in London, and sometimes the children had not seen their native place, Dallory, for years together.
"When did you come home, my dear?"
"To England a week ago. To Ham Court only yesterday. Do you know that you are much changed?"
"Ay. There's nothing but change in this life, my dear. The nearer we approach the end of our days, the faster our sorrows seem to come upon us. I have had more than my share of them, and they have changed me. I see only one source of comfort left to me in the wide world."
"And that?" she asked, half kneeling at his feet.
"My dear son Richard. No one knows the son he has been to me; the sacrifices he has made. No one save God."
Miss Dallory gave no answer to this. He was lost in deep abstraction, thinking no doubt of his many troubles--for he always was thinking of them--when the person in question entered; Richard North. Miss Dallory rose and sat down on a chair decorously.
She remained only a minute or two now, and spent the time talking and laughing. Richard gave her his arm to take her back to the others. Miss Dallory apparently was in no hurry to go, for she lingered over some of the flower-beds.
"Is the strike a serious matter?" she questioned in a confidential tone.
"As serious as it is possible for any matter of the kind to be," replied Richard.
"You and your men were always on the best of terms: why did they become dissatisfied with you?"
"They never became dissatisfied with me. The Trades' Unions' agents stepped in and persuaded them they would be better off if they could work less time and be paid more wages. The men listened: it was only natural they should do so: and presented themselves with these new demands. I did not grant them, and they struck. That's the case in a nutshell, Miss Dallory."
"I suppose you would not grant them?"
"I would not grant them upon principle; I could not, because my profits did not allow it. I am quite certain that if I had given way, in a short time the men would have demanded more. The Trades' Unions will never allow them to be satisfied, until----"
"Until what?" she asked, for Richard had stopped.
"Until the country is ruined, and its trade has left it."
"It is a serious thing," she said--and she was very grave now. "I suppose you would take the men on again upon the old terms?"
"And be glad to do it."
"And they will not come?"
"No. I have offered to meet them half-way. It is of no use."
"Then I think those men deserve to learn what want of employment means," she returned warmly. "I thought your men were intelligent; I used to know many of them. When I go amongst them--and that may be tomorrow---I shall ask them if they have taken leave of their senses. What does Mrs. Gass say to it all?"
Richard smiled a little. Mrs. Gass said more than he did, he answered, but it was equally useless.
"And I suppose it is the strike that is troubling Mr. North? I think him so very much changed."
"It troubles him, of course--and there are other things."
"Does it troubleyou?" asked Miss Dallory, pointedly, as she looked straight at him.
"Trouble me!" he rejoined, surprised at the unnecessary question. "Why, it involves simply ruin, unless we can go on again. Ruin to me, and to my father with me. There's your brother."
They had reached the lawn at length, and saw Francis Dallory, who had come for his sister. He was a short, fair young man, with an open countenance. Madam had already appropriated him.
"Where's Arthur?" demanded madam, imperiously, as Miss Dallory came up on Richard's arm. "I thought he was with you."
Miss Dallory answered that she had not seen Arthur Bohun since quitting the dinner-table. No one had seen him, as far as madam could discover. She suspected he must have gone off somewhere to smoke; and would have liked to put his pipe behind the fire.
But the pipe was not in fault. Arthur Bohun, possibly thinking there were enough without him, had quietly made his escape, and gone for a stroll towards the Ham. It took him so near to Mrs. Cumberland's that he said to himself he might as well call and ask after the headache she had been suffering from in the morning.
Sophistry! Nothing but sophistry. Captain Arthur Bohun did not really care whether her headache was worse or better; until a moment ago he had not even remembered that she had complained of headache. The simple truth was, that he could not bear to rest for even one evening without a glimpse of Ellen Adair. No mother ever hungered for a lost child as he hungered for her presence.
They were at tea. Mrs. Cumberland, Ellen, and Mr. Seeley. When Jelly showed Captain Bohun in, the doctor was just taking his second cup. Ellen, who presided at the tea-tray, asked Captain Bohun if he would take some, and he rather shortly answered, No. Warfare lay in his mind. What business had that man to be sitting there on a footing of companionship with Ellen Adair?
Mrs. Cumberland's head was a little worse, if anything, she replied, thanking Captain Bohun for his solicitude in regard to it. Mr. Seeley had given her two draughts of something--ether, she believed--in the afternoon, but they had not done her head any good.
It might have come to a question as to which would sit out the other--for Mr. Seeley detected somewhat of the state of Arthur Bohun's mind, and resented it--but for the entrance of Dr. Rane. Dr. Rane appeared to have no present intention of leaving again, for he plunged into a hot discussion with his brother-practitioner, touching some difficult question in surgery, which seemed quite likely to continue all night, and Arthur Bohun rose. He would have remained willingly, but he was ever sensitive as to intruding, and fancied Mrs. Cumberland might wonder why he stayed.
As he went out, Francis Dallory and his sister were passing on their walk homeward. Captain Bohun turned with them, and went to the end of the Ham.
The shades of evening--nay, of night--had stolen over the earth as he went back again; the light night of summer. The north-west was bright with its opal tints; a star or two shone in the heavens. Dr. Rane was pacing his garden walks, his wife on his arm.
"Goodnight, Bessy!" he called out to her, whom he had always regarded as his stepsister.
"Goodnight, Arthur!" came the hearty rejoinder as Bessy recognized his voice.
Onwards a few steps--only a few--and it brought Arthur Bohun level with the window of Mrs. Cumberland's drawing-room. It was not yet lighted. At the window, standing very closely together, stood the other doctor and Ellen Adair. In Captain Bohun's desperate jealousy, he stared Ellen full in the face, and made no movement of recognition. Turning away with a contemptuous movement, plainly discernible in the dusk, he went striding on.
Shakespeare never read more truly the human heart than when he said that jealousy makes the food it feeds on. Arthur Bohun went home almost maddened; not so much with jealousy in its absolute sense, as with indignation at the doctor's iniquitous presumption. Could he have analyzed his own heart fairly, he would have found there full trust in the good faith of Ellen Adair. But he was swayed by man's erring nature, and yielded to it.
How innocent it all was! how little suggestive, could Captain Bohun only have read events correctly. There had been no invitation to tea at all; Mr. Seeley had gone in just as they began to take it, and was offered a cup by Mrs. Cumberland. As to being together at the window, Ellen had been standing there to catch the fading light for her wool-work, perhaps as an excuse for leaving him and Mrs. Cumberland to converse alone; and he had just come up to her to say goodnight as Captain Bohun passed.
If we could only divine the truth of these fancies when jealousy puts them before us in its false and glaring light, some phases of our lives might be all the happier in consequence. Arthur Bohun lay tossing the whole night long on his sleepless pillow, tormenting himself by wondering what Ellen Adair's answer to Seeley would be. That the fellow in his audacity was proposing to her as they stood at the window, he could have sworn before the Lord Chief Baron of England. It was a wretched night; his tumultuous thoughts were sufficient to wear him out. Arthur had Collins' "Ode to the Passions" by heart; but it never occurred to him to recall any part of it to profit now.
"Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,Sad proof of thy distressful state.Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate."
"Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,
Sad proof of thy distressful state.
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:
And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate."
When Arthur Bohun rose the next morning, his senses had returned to him. That Ellen Adair's love was his, and that no fear existed of her accepting any other man, let him be prince or peasant, reason assured him. He wanted to see her; for that his heart was always yearning; but on this morning when, as it seemed, he had been judging her harshly, the necessity seemed overwhelmingly great. His impatient feet would have carried him to Mrs. Cumberland's immediately after breakfast; but his spirit was a little rebellious still, and kept him back. He would not betray his impatience, he thought; would not go down until the afternoon; and he began to resort to all sorts of expedients for killing time. He walked with Richard North the best part of the way to Dallory: he came back and wrote to his aunt, Miss Bohun; he went sauntering about the flower-beds with Mr. North. As the day wore on towards noon, his restless feet betook him to Ham Lane--which the reader has not visited since he saw Dr. Rane hastening through it on the dark and troubled night that opened this history. The hedges were green now, beautiful with their dog-roses of delicate pink and white, giving out the perfume of sweet-briar. Captain Bohun went along, switching at these same pleasant hedges with his cane. Avoiding the turning that would take him to Dallory Ham, he continued his way to another and less luxurious lane; the lane that skirted the back of the houses of the Ham, familiarly called by their inhabitants "the back lane." Strolling onwards, he had the satisfaction of finding himself passing the dead wall of Mrs. Cumberland's garden, and of seeing the roof and chimneys of her house. Should he go round and call? A few steps lower down, just beyond Dr. Rane's, was an opening that would take him there, a public-house at its corner. He had told himself he would not go until the afternoon, and now it was barely twelve o'clock; should he call, or should he not call?
Moving on, in his indecision, at a slow pace, he had arrived just opposite Dr. Rane's back garden door, when it suddenly opened, and the doctor himself came forth.
"Ah, how d'ye do?" said the doctor, rather surprised at seeing Arthur Bohun there. "Were you coming in this way? The door was bolted."
"Only taking a stroll," carelessly replied Captain Bohun. "How's Bessy?"
"Quite well. She is in the dining-room, if you'll come in and see her."
Nothing loth, Arthur Bohun stepped in at once, the doctor continuing his way. Mrs. Rane was darning stockings. She and Arthur had always been the very best of friends, quite brother and sister. Meek and gentle as ever, she looked, sitting there with her smooth, curling hair, and the loving expression in her mild, soft eyes! Arthur sat down and talked with her, his glance roving ever to that other house, seeking the form of one whom he did not see.
"Do you know how Mrs. Cumberland is this morning?" he inquired of Bessy.
"I have not heard. Mr. Seeley has been there; for I saw him in the dining-room with Ellen Adair."
Arthur Bohun's pulses froze to ice.
"I think they are both in the garden now."
"Are they?" snapped Arthur. "His patients must get on nicely if he idles away his mornings in a garden."
Bessy looked up from her darning. "I don't mean that Seeley's there, Arthur--I mean Mrs. Cumberland and Ellen."
As Bessy spoke, Jelly was seen to come out of Mrs. Cumberland's house, penetrate the trees, and return with her mistress.
"Some one has called, I suppose," remarked Bessy.
Captain Bohun thought the gods had made the opportunity for himself expressly. He went out, stepped over the small fence, and disappeared in the direction that Mrs. Cumberland had come from, believing it would lead him to Ellen Adair.
In the secluded and beautiful spot where we first saw her--but where we shall not often, alas! see her again--she sat. The flowers of early spring were out then; the richer summer flowers were blooming now. A natural bower of roses seemed to encompass her; the cascade was trickling softly as ever down the artificial rocks, murmuring its monotonous cadence; the birds sang to each other from branch to branch; glimpses of the green lawn and of brilliant flowers were caught through the trees. Ellen Adair had sometimes thought the spot beautiful as a scene in fairy-land. It was little less so.
She was not working this morning. An open book lay before her on the rustic table; her cheek was leaning on her raised hand, from which the lace fell back; a hand so suspiciously delicate as to betoken a want of sound strength in its owner. She wore a white dress, with a bow of pink ribbon at the throat, and a pink waistband. There were times, and this was one of them, when she looked extremely fragile.
A sound of footsteps. Ellen only thought it was Mrs. Cumberland returning, and read on. But there was a different sound inthesesteps as they gained on her ear. Her heart stood still, and then bounded on again tumultuously, her pulses tingled, her sweet face turned red as the blushing rose. Sunshine had come.
"Good-morning, Miss Adair."
In cold, resentful, haughty tones was it spoken, and he did not attempt to shake hands. The sunshine seemed to go in again with a sweep. She closed her book and opened it, her fingers fluttering. Captain Bohun put down his hat on the seat.
"I thought Seeley might be here," said he, seeking out a lovely rose, and plucking it carefully.
"Seeley!" she exclaimed.
"Seeley. I beg your pardon. I did not know I spoke indistinctly. SEELEY."
He stood and faced her, watching the varying colour of her face, the soft blushes going and coming. Somehow they increased his anger.
"May I ask if you have accepted him?"
"Ac--cepted him!" she stammered, in wild confusion. "Accepted what?"
"The offer that Seeley made you last night."
"It was not last night," she replied in a confused impulse.
"Oh, then it was this morning! May I congratulate you, or not?"
Ellen Adair turned to her book in deep vexation. She had been caught, as it were, into making the tacit admission that Mr. Seeley had made her an offer. And she was hurt at Arthur Bohun's words and tone. Had he no more trust in her thanthis?As she turned the leaves of the book in her agitation, the plain gold ring on her finger attracted his sight. He was chafing inwardly, but he strove to appear at careless ease, and sat down as far from her as the bench allowed.
"I would be honourable if I died for it," he remarked with indifference, looking at the rose. "Is it quite the thing for you to listen to another man whilst you wear that ring upon your finger?"
Ellen took it off and pushed it towards him along the table.
This frightened him. He turned as white as ashes. Until now, he had only been speaking in jealousy, not in belief. Her own face was becoming white, her lips were compressed to hide their trembling. And thus they sat for a minute or two. He looked at the ring, then looked at her.
"Do you mean it, Ellen?" he asked, in a voice that struggled with agitation, proving how very earnest he deemed the thing was becoming--whatever it might have begun in.
She made no answer.
"Do you wish to give me back this ring?"
"What you said was, I thought, equivalent to asking for it."
"It was not. You know better."
"Why are you quarrelling with me?"
Moving an inch nearer, he changed his tone to gentleness, bending his head forward.
"Heaven knows that it is bitter enough to do so. Have I cause, Ellen?"
Her eyes were bent down: the colour stole into her face again; a half-smile parted her lips.
"You know, Ellen, it is perfectly monstrous that a common man like Seeley should dare to cast his aspiring thoughts to you."
"Was it my fault?" she returned. "He ought to have seen that--that--I should not like it."
"What did you tell him?"
"That it was quite impossible; that he was making a mistake altogether. When he was gone, I complained to Mrs. Cumberland."
"Insolent jackanapes! Was he rude, Ellen?"
"Rude! Mr. Seeley!" she returned in surprise. "Quite the contrary. He has always been as considerate and deferential as a man can be. You look down on his position, Arthur, but he is as great a gentleman in mind as you are."
"I only despise his position when he would seek to unite you to it."
"It has been very wrong of you to make me confess this. I can tell you I am feeling anything but 'honourable,' as you put it just now. There are things that should never be talked about; this is one of them. Nothing can be more unfair."
Very unfair. Captain Bohun's right feeling had come back to him, and he could only assent to it. He began to feel a little ashamed of himself on more points than one.
"It shall never escape my lips, Ellen, whilst I breathe. Seeley's secret is safe for me."
Taking up the ring, he held it for a moment, as if examining the gold. Ellen rose and went outside. The interview was becoming a very conscious one. He caught her up near the cascade, took her right hand in his, and slipped the ring upon her third finger.
"How many times has it been off?" he asked.
"Never until to-day."
"Well, there it is again, Ellen. Cherish it still. I hope--that ere long----"
He did not finish, but she understood quite well what he meant. Their eyes met, and each read the impassioned love seated within the other; strangely pure withal, and idealistic as ever poet dreamed of. He strained the hand in his.
"Forgive my petulance, my darling."
Excepting the one sweet word and the lingering pressure of the hand; excepting that the variegated rose was transferred from his possession to hers, the interview had been wholly wanting in the fond signs and tokens that are commonly supposed to attend the intercourse of lovers. Captain Bohun had hitherto abstained from using them, and perhaps Heaven alone knew what the self-denial cost him. In his unusually refined nature he may have deemed that they would be unjustifiable, until he could speak out openly and say, Will you be my wife?
"What is your book, Ellen?" he asked, as she returned to take it up from the table.
"Longfellow."
"Longfellow! Shall I read some of it to you? can you remain out?"
"I can do so until one o'clock; luncheon-time."
They sat down, and he began "The Courtship of Miles Standish." The blue sky shone down upon them through the flickering leaves, the cascade trickled, the bees hummed in the warm air, the white butterflies sported with the buds and flowers: and Ellen Adair, her hands clasping that treasure they held, the rose, her eyes falling on it to hide their happiness, listened in wrapt attention, for the voice was sweeter to her than any out of heaven.
The words of another poet most surely were applicable to this period of the existence of Captain Bohun and Ellen Adair. One of them at least would acknowledge it amidst the bitterness of afterlife.
"Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands."
"Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands."
It could not last--speaking now only of the hour. One o'clock came all too soon; when he had seemingly read about ten minutes; and Miles Standish had to be left in the most unsatisfactory condition. Ellen rose: she must hasten in.
"It is a pity to break off here," said Arthur. "Shall I come and finish it this afternoon?"
Ellen shook her head. In the afternoon she would have to drive out with Mrs. Cumberland.
Captain Bohun went home through the green lanes, and soon found himself amidst those other flowers--Mr. North's. That gentleman came forth from his room to meet him, apparently in some tribulation, a letter in hand.
"Oh, Arthur, I don't know what to say to you; I am so sorry," he exclaimed. "Look here. When the postman came this morning, I happened to be out on the lawn, and he gave me my two letters, as I thought, and as he must have thought too, going on to the hall-door with the rest. I put them into my pocket and forgot them, Arthur: my spectacles were indoors. When I remembered them only just now, I found one was directed to you in Sir Nash's handwriting. I am so sorry," repeated poor Mr. North in his helpless manner.
"Don't be sorry, sir," replied Arthur cheerily. "It's nothing; not of the least consequence at all," he added, opening the letter. Nevertheless, as his eyes fell on the contents, a rather startled expression crossed his face.
"There!" cried Mr. North. "Something's wrong, and the delay has done mischief."
"Indeed nothing's wrong--in the sense you are thinking," repeated Arthur--for he would not have added to the poor old man's troubles for the world. "My uncle says James is not as well as he could wish: he wants me to go up at once and stay with them. You can read it for yourself, sir."
Mr. North put on his glasses. "I see, Arthur. You might have gone the first thing this morning, but for my keeping the letter. It was very stupid of the postman to give it to me."
Arthur laughed. "Indeed, I should have made no such hurry. There's not the least necessity for that. I think I shall go up this afternoon, though."
"Yes, do, Arthur. And explain to Sir Nash that it was my fault. Tell him that I am growing forgetful and useless. Fit only to be cut down, Arthur; only to be cut down."
Arthur Bohun put the old man's arm affectionately within his, and took him back to his parlour. If Mr. North had grown old it was with worry, not with years: the worry dealt daily out to him by madam; and Arthur would have remedied it with his best blood had he known how.
"You had better go up with me, sir; for a little change. Sir Nash would be glad to see you."
"Igo up with you! I couldn't, Arthur; I am not equal to it now. And the strike is on, you know, and my place ought to be here while it lasts. The men look upon me still as their master, though Dick--Dick acts. And there's another thing, Arthur--I couldn't leave my roses just as they have come into bloom."
Arthur Bohun smiled; the last reason was all powerful. Mr. North stayed behind, and he went up that same afternoon to London.
The tontine. If the reader only knew how important a share the tontine--with its results--holds in this little history, he would enter on it with interest.
Tontines may be of different arrangement. In fact they are so. This one was as follows. It had been instituted at Whitborough. Ten gentlemen put each an equal sum into a common fund, and invested the whole in the joint names of ten children all under a year old. This money was to accumulate at compound interest, until only one of these children should be living: the last survivor would then receive the whole of the money unconditionally.
Of these ten children whose names were inscribed on the parchment deed, Oliver Rane and Bessy North alone survived. Mr. North had been wont to call it an unlucky tontine, for its members had died off rapidly one after another. For several years only three had been left; and now one of them, George Massey, had followed in the wake of those who were gone. Under ordinary circumstances, the tontine would have excited no comment whatever, but have gone on smoothly to the end: that is, until one of the two survivors had collapsed. The other would have had the money paid him; and nothing would have been thought about it, except that he was a fortunate man.
But this case was exceptional. The two survivors were man and wife. For the good fortune to lapse to one of them, the other must die. It was certainly a curious position, and it excited a great deal of comment in the neighbourhood. Dallory, as prone to gossip as other places, made of it that oft-quoted thing, a nine-days' wonder. In the general stagnation caused by the strike, people took up the tontine as a source of relief.
Practically the tontine was of no further use to the two remaining members: that is, to the two combined. They were one, so to say; and so long as they continued to be so, the money could not lapse to either. If Bessy died, Dr. Rane would take it; if Dr. Rane died, she would take it. Nothing more could be made of it than this. It had been accumulating now just one-and-thirty years; how much longer it would be left to accumulate none could foresee. For one-and-thirty years to come, in all human probability; for Dr. Rane and his wife appeared to possess sound and healthy constitutions. Nay, they might survive ten or twenty years beyond that, and yet not be very aged. And so, there it was; and Dallory made the matter its own, with unceremonious freedom.
But not as Dr. and Mrs. Rane did. They had need of money, and this huge sum--huge to them--lying at the very threshold of their door, but forbidden to enter, was more tantalizing than pen can describe. Richard North had not been far wrong in his computation: and the amount, as it stood at present, was considerably over two thousand pounds. The round sum, however, was sufficient to reckon by, without counting the odds and ends. Two thousand pounds! Two thousand pounds theirs of right, and yet they might not touch it because both of them were living!
How many hours they spent discussing the matter with each other could never be told. As soon as twilight came on, wherever they might be and whatever the occupation, the theme was sure to be drifted into. In the dining-room when it grew too dark for Dr. Rane to pursue his writing; in the drawing-room, into which Bessy would wile him, and sing to him one of her simple songs; walking together, arm within arm, in the garden paths, the stars in the summer sky above them, the waving trees round about them, the subject of the tontine would be taken up: the tontine; nothing but the tontine. No wonder that they grew to form plans of what they would do if the money were theirs: we all know how apt we are to let imagination run away with us, and to indulge visions that seem to become almost realities. Dr. Rane sketched a bright future, With two thousand pounds in hand, he could establish himself in a first-rate metropolitan locality, set up well, both professionally and socially; and there would be plenty of money for him and his wife to live upon whilst the practice was growing. Bessy entered into it all as eagerly as he. Having become accustomed to the idea of quitting Dallory, she never glanced at the possibility of remaining there.Shethought his eager wish, his unalterable determination to leave it, was connected only with the interests of his profession;heknew that the dread of a certain possible discovery, ever haunting his conscience, made the place more intolerable to him day by day. At any cost he must get away from it: at any cost. There was a great happiness in these evening conversations, in the glowing hopes presented by plans and projects. But, where was the use of indulging in them, when the tontine money--the pivot on which all was to turn--could never be theirs? As often as this damping recollection brought them up with a check, Dr. Rane would fall into gloomy silence. Gradually, by the very force of thinking, he saw a way, or thought he saw a way, by which their hopes might be accomplished. And that was to induce the trustees to advance the money at once to him and his wife jointly.
Meanwhile the strike continued with unabated force. Not a man was at work; every one refused to do a stroke unless he could be paid for it whathethought right, and left off his daily labour! when he chose. One, might have supposed, by the independence of the demands, that the men were the masters, North and Gass the servants. Privation was beginning to reign, garments grow scanty, faces pale and pinched. There was not so much as a sixpence for superfluities: and under that head in troubled times must be classed the attendance of a medical man. It will readily be understood, therefore, that this state of affairs did not contribute to the income of Dr. Rane.
One day, Mr. North, sitting on the short green bench in front of his choicest carnation bed, found two loving hands put round his neck from behind. He had been three parts asleep, and woke up slightly bewildered.
"Bessy, child, is it you?"
It was Mrs. Rane. Her footfall on the grass had not been heard. She wore a cool print dress and a black silk mantle; and her plain straw bonnet looked charming, around the pretty falling curls. Bessy looked quiet and simple at all times: and always a lady.
"Did I startle you, papa?"
"No, my dear. When I felt the arms, I thought it was Mary Dallory. She comes upon me without warning sometimes. Here's room, Bessy."
She sat down beside him. It was a very hot morning, and Bessy unfastened the strings of her bonnet. There was a slight look of weariness on her face as if she were just a little worried with home cares. In truth she felt so: but all for Oliver's sake. If the money did not come in so freely as to make matters easy, she did not mind it for herself, but for him.
"Papa, I have come to talk to you," she began, laying one of her hands affectionately on his knee. "It is about the tontine money. Oliver thinks that it might be paid to us conjointly; that it ought to be."
"I know he does," replied Mr. North. "It can't be done, Bessy."
Her countenance fell a little. "Do you think not, papa?"
"I am sure not, child."
"Papa, I am here this morning to beg you to use your interest with Sir Thomas Ticknell. Oliver knows nothing about my coming. He said last night, when we were talking, that if you could be induced to throw your influence into the scale, the bank might listen to you. So I thought that I would come to you in the morning and ask."
"The bank won't listen to me, or to any one else, in this matter, Bessy. It's illegal to pay the tontine money over while two of you are living, and the Ticknells are too strict to risk it. I shouldn't do it myself in their places."
"What Oliver says is this, papa. The money must, in the course of events, come to either him or me, whichever of us survives the other. We have therefore an equal interest in it, and possess at present an equal chance of succeeding to it. No one else in the wide world, but our two selves, has the smallest claim to it, or ever can have. We are the only survivors of the ten; the rest are all dead. Why, then, should the trustees not stretch a point and let us have the money while it can be of use to us conjointly? Oliver says they ought to do it."
"I know he does," remarked Mr. North.
"Has Oliver spoken to you, papa?"
"No," said Mr. North. "I heard about it from Dick. Dick happened to be at the bank yesterday, and Thomas Ticknell mentioned to him that Dr. Rane had been urging this request upon them. Dick said Sir Thomas seemed quite horrified at the proposition; they had told Dr. Rane, in answer, that if they could consent to such a thing it would be no better than a fraud."
"So they did," replied Bessy. "When Oliver was relating it to me after he came home, he could not help laughing--in spite of his vexation. The money is virtually ours, so where would the fraud lie?"
"To be virtually yours is one thing, Bessy; to be legally yours is another. You young women can't be expected to understand business problems, my dear; but your husband understands them. Of course it would be a great boon to get the two thousand pounds whilst you are both together; but it would not be legal for the bankers to do it, and they are right in refusing it."
"Then--do you think there is no chance for us, papa?"
"Not the least chance, child."
A silence ensued. Mr. North sat watching his carnations, Bessy watching, with far-off gaze, the dark-blue summer sky. In spite of her father's opinion, she thought the brothers, Thomas and William Ticknell, unduly hard.
The Ticknells were the chief bankers of Whitborough. Upon the institution of the tontines, the two brothers, then in their early prime, had been made trustees to it, in conjunction with a gentleman named Wilson. In the course of time, Mr. Wilson died: and Thomas and William Ticknell grew into tolerably aged men; they wanted now not much of the allotted three score years and ten. The elder brother had gone up to court with some great local matter, and he came back Sir Thomas. These two gentlemen had full power over the funds of the tontine. They were straightforward, honourable men; of dispositions naturally cautious; and holding very strict opinions in business. Increasing years had not tended to lessen caution, or to soften strict tenets: and when Dr. Rane, soliciting a private interview with the brothers, presented himself before them with a proposition that they should pay over the tontine money to him and his wife conjointly, without waiting for the death of either, the few hairs remaining on the old gentlemen's white heads rose up on end.
Truly it had seemed to them, this singular application, as touching closely upon fraud. Dr. Rane argued the matter with them, putting it in the most feasible and favourable light: and it must be acknowledged that, to his mind, it appeared a thing not only that they might do, but that it would be perfectly right and honest to do. All in vain; they heard him with courtesy, but were harder than adamant. Richard North happened to go in upon some business soon after the conclusion of the interview, and the brothers--they were the bankers of North and Gass--told him confidentially of the application. Richard imparted it to his father: hence Mr. North heard Bessy without surprise.
Regarded from the narrow, legal point of view, of course the Messrs. Ticknell might be right; but, taking it broadly and comprehensively, there could be no doubt that it seemed hard upon Oliver Rane and his wife. The chief question that had presented itself to Richard North's mind was: if the money were handed over now, would the Messrs. Ticknell be quite secure from ulterior consequences? They saidnot. Upon Richard North's suggesting that a lawyer might be consulted on the point, Sir Thomas Ticknell answered that, no matter what a lawyer might say, they should never incur the responsibility of parting with the tontine money so long as two of its members were living. "And I think they must be right," Richard remarked afterwards to his father. Turning to Bessy, sitting by him on the bench, Mr. North repeated this. Bessy listened in dutiful silence, but shook her head.
"Papa, much as I respect Richard's judgment, clever as I know him to be, I am sure he is wrong here. It is very strange that he should go against me and Oliver."
"It is because of that same good judgment, my dear," replied Mr. North simply. "I'd trust it against the world, on account of his impartiality. When he has to decide between two opposite opinions, he invariably puts himself, or tries to put himself, in either place, weighs each side, and comes to an unbiassed conclusion. Look at this present strike: Dick has been reproached with leaning to the men's side, with holding familiar argument with them, for and against; a thing that few masters would do: but it is because he sees they really believe they have right on their side, and he would treat their opinions with respect, however mistaken he may know them to be."
"Richard cannot think the men are not to blame!" exclaimed Mrs. Rane.
"He lays the blame chiefly where, ashesays, it is due--on the Trade Union. The men were deluded into listening to it at first; and they can't help obeying its dictates now. They have given themselves over to it, body and soul, Bessy, and can no more escape from it than a prisoner from a dungeon. That's Richard's view, mind; and it makes him lenient; I'd try and bring them to their senses in a different way, if I had the power and the means left me."
"In what way, papa?"
"Bessy, if I were what I once was--a wealthy man, independent of business--I'd close the works for good: break them up: burn them if necessary: anything but reopen them. The trade should go where it would, and the men after it; or stay here and starve, just as they chose. I would never have my peace of life worried out of me by these strikes; or let men that I have employed and always done liberally by dictate to me. They'll find it out, Bessy, to their cost, as sure as that we two are sitting here."
Mr. North seized the hoe that was resting beside the bench, and struck it lightly on the ground. Meaning no doubt to give emphasis to his words. Bessy Rane passed from the subject of the strike to that which more immediately concerned her.
"Richard is honest, papa; he would never say what he did not think; but he may be mistaken sometimes. Icannotunderstand how he can think the Ticknells right in refusing to let us have the money. If there were the slightest, smallest reason for their keeping it back, it would be different: but there is none."
"See here, Bessy. If they go by the strict letter of the law, they cannot do it. The tontine deed was drawn up as tightly as any deed can be: it expressly says that nine of the members must be dead, and only the tenth remaining, before the money can be withdrawn from its investment. The Ticknells can't get over this."
"Papa--forgive me--you should not say can't, but won't," spoke Mrs. Rane. "They can do it if they please; there is nothing to prevent it. All power lies with them; they are responsible to none. If they paid over the money to Oliver tomorrow, not an individual in the whole world could call them to account for it. The strictest judge on the bench could not say to them afterwards, You have paid away money that you had no right to pay."
"Stop, Bessy--that's just where the weak point lies. The Ticknells say that if they parted with the money now, they might be called upon again for it at some future time."
Bessy sat in amazement. "Why! How could that be?"
"Dick put it somehow in this way, my dear: that is, Thomas Ticknell put it to him. If you should die, Bessy, leaving your husband a widower with children: or, for the matter of that, if he should die, leaving you with some: those children might come upon the Ticknells for the money over again. Or Rane might come upon them, if he were the one left; or you, if you were. It was in that way, I think Dick said; but my memory is not as clear as it used to be."
"As if we should be so dishonourable! Besides--there could be no possibility of claiming the money twice over. Having received it once, the Ticknells would hold our receipt for it."
Mr. North shook his head. "The law is full of quips and quibbles, Bessy. If the trustees paid over this money to you and your husband now, contrary to the provisions of the tontine deed, I suppose it is at least a nice question whether the survivor could not compel them to pay it again."
Bessy held her breath. "Doyouthink they could be compelled, papa?"
"Well, I don't know, Bessy. I fancy perhaps they might be. Dick says they are right, as prudent men, to refuse. One thing you and Oliver may rest assured of, my dear--that, under the doubt, the Ticknells will never be persuaded to do it as long as oak and ash grow."
Bessy Rane sighed, and began to tie her bonnet. She had no idea that paying the money would involve the trustees in any liability, real or fancied, and hope went out of her from that moment. By nature she was as just as Richard; and she could not henceforth even wish that the bankers should incur the risk.
"Dick's indoors, my dear, if you'd like to ask him what Thomas Ticknell said; he would explain it to you better than I have. No hurry now, to be off in a morning: there are no works open to go to."
"I have heard enough, papa; I quite understand it now," was Mrs. Rane's answer. "It will be a dreadful disappointment to Oliver when he hears that no chance, or hope, is left. It would have been--oh such a help to us."
"He is not getting on very well, is he, Bessy?"
"No. Especially since the strike set in. The men can't pay."
"Seeley must feel it as well as Oliver."
"Not half as much; not a quarter. His practice chiefly lies amongst the richer classes. Well, we must have patience. As Oliver says, Fortune does not seem to smile upon us just now."
"If I could put a hundred-pound note, or so, into your hand, whilst these bad times are being tided over, I'd do it, Bessy, with all my heart. But I can't. Tell Oliver so. The strike is bringing us no end of embarrassment, and I don't know where it will end. It was bad enough before, as you remember, Bessy: but we always had Richard as a refuge."
"Richard will take care of you still, papa; don't be troubled; in some way or other, I am sure he will. As to ourselves, we are young, and can wait for the good time coming."
Very cheerily she spoke. And perhaps felt so. Bessy's gentle nature held a great deal of sunshine.
"I wonder Oliver's mother does not help him," remarked Mr. North.
"She would gladly do it, papa, but she lives up to every farthing of her income: beyond it, I fancy, sometimes. She is accustomed to luxuries, and her travelling about costs a good deal. Mrs. Cumberland is not one to economize, or to put up with small lodgings and discomforts on her different sojourns. Sometimes, as you know, she posts: it is easier, she says; and that is expensive."
"You'll come in, won't you, Bessy?" said Mr. North as she rose. "Miss Field and Matilda were sitting in the hall just now; it is the coolest place in the house."
She hesitated for a moment, and then walked on by his side. Mrs. Rane's visits to the Hall were rare. Madam had not been cordial with her since her marriage; and she had never once condescended to enter Bessy's home.
The hall was empty. Bessy was about to enter the drawing-room in search of Matilda, when the door opened and madam appeared. Madam started haughtily, stepped back, and shut the door in Bessy's face. Next moment, a hand was extended over Bessy's shoulder, and threw it wide.
"By your leave, madam," said Richard North calmly. "Room for my sister."
He marshalled her in as though she had been a duchess. Madam, drawing her lace shawl round her shoulders, swept majestically out, vouchsafing neither word nor look. It was nothing more than the contempt often dealt to Bessy: but Richard's blood went up in a boil.
That the trustees' refusal to part with the funds of the tontine was irrevocable, there could be no doubt about: nevertheless, Oliver Rane declined to see it. The matter got wind, as nearly everything else seemed to do in Dallory, and many people took his part. It was a frightful shame, they thought, that a man and his wife could not enjoy together the money that was their due, but must wait for one or the other's death before they received it. Jelly's tongue made itself particularly busy. Dr. Rane was not a favourite of hers on the whole, but she espoused his cause warmly in this.
"It's such a temptation," remarked Jelly to a select few, one night at Ketler's, whither she had betaken herself to blow up the man for continuing to keep out on strike, to which movement Jelly was a determined foe.
"A temptation?" rejoined Tim Wilks respectfully, who made one of her audience. "In what way, Miss Jelly?"
"In what way," retorted Jelly with scorn. "Why in the way ofstealingthe money, if it's to be got at; or of punching those two old bankers' heads. When a man's kept out of his own through nothing but some crotchet, it's enough to make him feel desperate, Tim Wilks."
"So it is," acquiesced meek Timothy.
"If my mistress withheld my wages from me--which is twenty pounds a-year, and her left-off silks--I should fight, I know: perhaps take them. Andthisis two thousand pounds."
"Two thousand pounds!" ejaculated honest Ketler in low tones of reverence, as he lifted his hands. "And for the doctor to be kept out of it because his wife's not dead! Itisa shame."
"I wouldn't say, either, but it might bring another sort of temptation to some men, besides those mentioned by Miss Jelly," put in Timothy Wilks with hesitation.
"And pray what would that be?" demanded Jelly tartly--for she made it a point to keep Timothy under before company.
"The putting his wife out of the way on purpose to get the money, Miss Jelly," spoke Tim with deprecation. And the words caused a sudden pause.
"You--you don't mean murdering her!" shrieked Mrs. Ketler, who was a timid woman and given to being startled.
"Yes I did," replied Timothy Wilks. "Some might be found to do it. No offence to Dr. Rane. I'm putting the possible case of a bad man; not of him."