A well-spread dessert-table glittered under the rays of the chandelier in the dining-room of Sir Nash Bohun's town-house. Sir Nash and his nephew Arthur were seated at it, a guest between them. It was General Strachan; an old officer, Scotch by birth, who had just come home, after passing the best part of his life in India.
The winter was departing. Arthur Bohun looked better, Sir Nash pretty well. In a month or two both intended to depart for the German springs that were to renovate Sir Nash's life.
General Strachan had been intimate with Sir Nash Bohun in early life, before he went out to India. After he had gone out he had been equally intimate with Major Bohun: but he was only Captain Strachan in those days.
"And so you think Arthur like his father," observed Sir Nash, as he passed the claret.
"His very image," replied the general. "I'm sure I should have known him for Tom Bohun's son had I met him accidentally in the street. Adair saw the likeness, too."
"What Adair's that?" carelessly asked Sir Nash.
"William Adair. You saw him with me at the club-door this morning. We were going in at the moment you came up."
Perhaps Sir Nash was a little struck by the name. He called to mind a good-looking, slender, gentlemanly man, who had been arm-in-arm with the general at the time mentioned.
"But what Adair is it, Strachan?"
"What Adair? Why, the one who was in India when--when poor Tom died. He was Tom's greatest friend. Perhaps you have never heard of him?"
"Yes I have, to my sorrow," said Sir Nash. "It was he who caused poor Tom's death."
General Strachan apparently did not understand. "Who caused poor Tom's death?"
"Adair."
"Why, bless me, where could you have picked that up?" cried the general in surprise. "If Adair could have saved Tom's life by any sacrifice to himself he'd have done it. They were firm friends to the last."
Sir Nash seemed to be listening as though he heard not. "Of course we never heard the particulars of my brother's death, over here, as we should have heard them had we been on the spot," he remarked. "We were glad, rather, to hush it up for the sake of Arthur. Poor Tom fell into some trouble or disgrace, and Adair led him into it. That's what we were ever told."
"Then you were told wrong, Bohun," said the general somewhat bluntly. "Tom fell into debt, and I don't know what all, but it was not Adair who led him into it. Who could have told you so?"
"Mrs. Bohun, Tom's widow."
"Oh, she," returned the general, in accents of contempt that spoke volumes. "Why she--but never mind now," he broke off, suddenly glancing at Arthur as he remembered that she was his mother. "Let bygones be bygones," he added, sipping his claret; "no good recalling them. Only don't continue to think anything against William Adair. He is one of the best men living, and always has been."
Arthur Bohun, who had sat still as a stone, leaned his pale face a little towards the general, and spoke.
"Did not this Mr. Adair, after my father's death, get into disgrace, and--and undergo its punishment?"
"Never. Adair got into no disgrace."
"Has he not been a convict?" continued Arthur in low, clear tones.
"A WHAT?" cried the general, putting down his glass and staring at Arthur in amazement. "My good young fellow, you cannot know of whom you are speaking. William Adair has been a respected man all his life: he is just as honourable as your father was--and the world knew pretty well what poor Tom's fastidious notions of honour were. Adair is a gentleman amongst gentlemen; I can't say better of him than that, though I talked for an hour. He has come into all the family honours and fortune; which he never expected to do. A good old Scotch family it is, too; better than mine. There; we'll drop the subject now; no good reaping up things that are past and done with."
Sir Nash asked no more: neither did Arthur. Some instinct lay within both that, for their own sakes, it might be better not to do so.
But when the general left--which he did very soon, having an evening engagement--Arthur went out with him. Arthur Bohun knew, as well as though he had been told, that his wicked mother--he could only so think of her in that moment--had dealt treacherously with him; to answer some end of her own she had calumniated Mr. Adair. Cost him what pain and shame it might, he would clear it up now.
"Will you give me the particulars that you would not give to my uncle," began Arthur in agitation, the moment they were out of the house, as he placed his hand on the general's arm. "No matter what they are, I must know them."
"I would give them to your uncle, and welcome," said the plain old soldier. "It was to you I would not give them."
"But I must learn them."
"Not from me."
"If you will not give them to me, I shall apply to William Adair."
"William Adair can give them to you if he pleases. I shall not do so. Take advice, my dear young friend, and don't inquire into them."
"I will tell you what I suspect--that if any one had a hand in driving my father to--to do what he did do, it was his wife; my mother. You may tell me now."
"No. Because she is your mother."
"But I have the most urgent reason for wishing to arrive at the particulars."
"Well, Arthur Bohun, I would rather not tell you, and that's the truth. If poor Tom could hear me in his grave, I don't think he would like it, you see. No, I can't tell you. Ask Adair, first of all, whether he'd advise it, or not."
"Where is he staying?"
"In Grosvenor Place. He and his daughter are in a furnished house there. She is very delicate."
"And--you say--I beg your pardon, general," added Arthur in agitation, detaining him as he was going away--"You say that he is honoured, and a gentleman."
"Who? Adair? As much so as you or I, my young friend. You must be dreaming. Goodnight."
In his mind's tumult any delay seemed dreadful, and Arthur Bohun turned at once to the house in Grosvenor Place. He asked if he could see Mr. Adair.
The servant hesitated. "There is no Mr. Adair here, sir," he said.
Arthur looked up at the number. "Are you sure?" he asked of the man. "I was informed by General Strachan that Mr. Adair had taken this house, and was living here."
"The general must have said Sir William, sir. Sir William Adair lives here."
"Oh--Sir William," spoke Arthur, "I--I was not aware Mr. Adair had been knighted."
"Knighted, sir! My master has not been knighted," cried the man, as if indignant at the charge. "Sir William has succeeded to the baronetcy through the death of his uncle, Sir Archibald."
What with one thing and another, Arthur's senses seemed deserting him. Sir Archibald Adair had been well known to him by reputation: a proud old Scotch baronet, of a grand old lineage. And so this was Ellen's family! And he had been deeming her not fitting to mate with him, a Bohun!
"Can I see Sir William? Is he at home?"
"He is at home, sir. I think you can see him."
In his dining-room sat Sir William Adair when Arthur was shown in--some coffee on a stand by his side, a newspaper in his hand. He was a slight man of rather more than middle height, with an attractive countenance. The features were good, their expression noble and pleasing. It was impossible to associate such a face and bearing with anything like dishonour.
"I believe my name is not altogether strange to you, sir," said Arthur as the servant closed the door. "I hope you will pardon my intrusion--and especially that it should be at this late hour."
Sir William had risen to receive him. He could but mark the agitation with which the words were spoken. A moment's hesitation, and then he took Arthur's hand and clasped it within his own.
"If I wished to be distant with you I could not," he said warmly. "For, to me, you appear as your father come to life again. He and I were fast friends."
"And did you wish to be distant with me?" asked Arthur.
"I have felt cold towards you this many a year. More than that."
"But why, Sir William?"
"Ah--why. I cannot tell you. For one thing, I have pictured you as resembling another, more than my lost friend."
"You mean my mother."
Sir William looked at Arthur Bohun before replying. "Yes, I do. Will you take a seat: and some coffee?"
Arthur sat down, but it may be questioned whether he as much as heard that coffee was mentioned. Sir William rang the bell and ordered it to be brought in. Arthur leaned forward; his blue eyes solemnly earnest, his hand a little outstretched. Sir William almost started.
"How strangely like!" he exclaimed. "The look, the gesture, the voice, all are your father's over again. I could fancy that you were Thomas Bohun--as I last saw him in life."
"You knew him well--and my mother? You knew all about them?"
"Quite well. I knew you too when you were a little child."
"Then tell me one thing," said Arthur, his emotion increasing. "Was she my mother?"
The question surprised Sir William Adair. "She was certainly your mother, and your father's wife. Why do you ask it?"
"Because--she has so acted--that I--have many a time wished she was not. I have almost hoped it. I wish I could hope it now."
"Ah," cried Sir William. It was all he said.
"Did you care much, for my father, Sir William?"
"More than I ever cared for any other man. I have never cared for one since as I cared for him. We were young fellows then, he and I; not much older than you are now; but ours was a true friendship."
"Then I conjure you, by that friendship, to disclose to me the whole history of the past: the circumstances attending my father's death, and its cause. Speak of things as though my mother existed not. I wish to Heaven she never had been my mother!"
"I think you must know something of the circumstances," spoke Sir William. "Or why should you say this?"
"It is because I know part that I must know the whole. My mother has--hasliedto me," he concluded, bringing out the word with a painful effort. "She has thrust a false story upon me, and--I cannot rest until I know the truth."
"Arthur Bohun, although you conjure me by your late father: and for his sake I would do a great deal: I fear that I ought not to do this."
"General Strachan bade me come to you. I begged him to tell me all, but he said no. Does he know all?" broke off Arthur.
"Every tittle. I think he and I and your mother are nearly the only three left who do know it. There were only some half-dozen of us altogether."
"And do you not think that I, Major Bohun's only son, should at least be made acquainted with as much as others know? Tell me all, Sir William: for my lost father's sake."
"The only difficulty is--that you must hear ill of your mother."
"I cannot hear worse of her than I already know," impetuously returned Arthur. "Perhaps it was less bad than I am imagining it may have been."
But Sir William held back. Arthur seemed on the brink of a fever in his impatience. And, whether it was that, or to clear the memory of Major Bohun, or that he deemed it a righteous thing to satisfy Major Bohun's son, or that he yielded to overpersuasion, Sir William Adair at last spoke out.
They sat very close together, only the small coffee-table between them. Whether the room was in light or darkness neither remembered. It was a miserable tale they were absorbed in; one that need not be elaborated here.
William Adair, when a young man, quarrelled with his family, or they with him, and an estrangement took place. His father and mother were dead, but his uncle, Sir Archibald, and other relatives, were left. He, the young man, went to the Madras Presidency, appointed to some post there in the civil service. His family made a boast of discarding him; he, in return, was so incensed against them, that had it been practicable, he would have abandoned the very name of Adair. Never a word did he breathe to any one of who or what his family was; his Scotch accent betrayed his country, but people knew no more. That he was a gentleman was apparent, and that was sufficient.
A strong friendship ensued between him and Major Bohun. During one hot season it happened that both went up in search of health to the Blue Mountains, as Indians call the beautiful region of the Neilgherry Hills. Mrs. Bohun accompanied her husband; Mr. Adair was not married. There they made the acquaintance of the Reverend George Cumberland, who was stationed at Ootacamund with his wife. Ootacamund was at that time filled, and a good deal of gaiety was going on; Mrs. Bohun was noted for it. There was some gambling nightly: and no votary joined in it more persistently than she. Major Bohun removed with her to a little place at a short distance, and a few others went also; the chaplain, George Cumberland, was one of them.
There came a frightful day for Major Bohun. Certain claims suddenly swooped down upon him; debts; promissory notes, bearing his signature in conjunction with William Adair's. Neither understood what it meant, for they had given nothing of the sort. A momentary thought arose to Major Bohun--that his wife was implicated in it; but only so far as that she might have joined in this high play; nothing worse. He had become aware that she had a passion for gambling, and the discovery had alarmed him: in fact, it was to wean her from undesirable associates and pursuits that he had come away on this holiday; health, the ostensible plea, was not the true one. But this was not known even to his best friend, William Adair. "Let me deal with this," said the major to Mr. Adair. But Mr. Adair, not choosing to allow a man to forge his name with impunity--and he had no suspicion that it was a woman--did not heed the injunction, but addressed himself to the investigation. And a nest of iniquity he found it. He traced the affair home to one Rabbetson--in all probability an assumed name--a bad man in every way; no better than a blackleg; who had wormed himself into society to prey upon it, and upon men and women's failings. This man Mr. Adair confronted with Major Bohun: and then--the fellow, brought to bay, braved it out by disclosing that his helpmate was Mrs. Bohun.
It was even so. Mr. Adair sat aghast at the revelation. Had he suspected this, he would have kept it to himself. How far she had connected herself with this man, it was best not to inquire: and they never did inquire, and never knew. One thing was certain--the man could afford to take a high ground. He went out from the interview bidding them do their worst--which with him would not be much, he affirmed; for it was not he who had issued the false bills, but the major's wife. And they saw that he spoke the truth.
Arthur Bohun listened to this now, motionless as a statue.
"I never saw any man so overcome as Bohun," continued Sir William Adair. "He took it to heart; to heart. 'And she is the mother of my child!' he said to me; and then he gave way, and held my hands in his, and sobbed aloud. 'We will hush it up; we will take up the bills and other obligations,' I said to him: though in truth I did not see how I should do my part in it, for I was a poor man. He was poor also; his expenses and his wife kept him so. 'It cannot be hushed up, Adair,' he answered; 'it has gone too far.' Those were the last words he ever said to me; it was the last time I saw him alive."
"Go on," said Arthur, without raising his head.
"Mrs. Bohun came into the room, and I quitted it. I saw by her face that she knew what had happened; it was full of evil as she turned it on me. Rabbetson had met her when he was going out, and whispered some words in her ear. What passed between her and Major Bohun I never knew. Before I had been five minutes in my rooms she stood before me; had followed me down. Of all the vituperation that a woman's tongue can utter, hers lavished about the worst on me. It was I who had brought on the crisis, she said; it was I who had taken Rabbetson to her husband. I quietly told her that when I took Rabbetson to Major Bohun, I had not the remotest idea that she was mixed up with the affair in any way; and that if I had known it, known what Rabbetson could say, I never should have taken him, but have striven to deal with it myself, and keep it dark for my friend Bohun's sake. She would hear nothing; she was as a mad woman; she swore that not a word of it was true; that Rabbetson did not say it, could not have said it, but that I and Major Bohun had concocted the tale between us. In short, I think she was really mad for the time being."
"Stay a moment, Sir William," interrupted Arthur. "Who was she? I have never known. I don't think my father's family ever did know."
"Neither did I ever know, to a certainty. A cousin, or sister, or some relative of hers, had married a doctor in practice at Madras, and she was out there on a visit to them. Captain Bohun--as he was then--caught by her face and figure, both fine in those days, fell in love with her and married her. He afterwards found that her father kept an hotel somewhere in England."
So! This was the high-born lady who had set up for being above all Dallory. But for the utmost self-control Arthur Bohun would have groaned aloud.
"Go on, please," was all he said. "Get it finished."
"There is not much more to tell," returned Sir William. "I went looking about for Bohun everywhere that afternoon; and could not find him. Just before sun-down he was found--found as--as I dare say you have heard. The spot was retired and shady, his pistol lay beside him. He had not suffered: death must have been instantaneous."
"The report here was that he died of sunstroke," said Arthur, breaking a long pause.
"No doubt. Mrs. Bohun caused it to be so reported. The real facts transpired to very few: Cumberland, Captain Strachan, myself, and two or three others."
"Did Mrs. Cumberland know them?" suddenly asked Arthur, a thought striking him.
"I dare say not. I don't suppose her husband would disclose the shameful tale to her. She was not on the spot at the time; had gone to nurse some friend who was ill. I respected both the Cumberlands highly. We made a sort of compact amongst ourselves, we men, never to speak of this story, unless it should be to defend Bohun, or for some other good purpose. We wished to give Mrs. Bohun a chance of redeeming her acts and doings in her own land, for which she at once sailed. Arthur, if I have had to say this toyou, it is to vindicate your dead father. I believe that your mother has dreaded me ever since."
Dreaded him! Ay! and foully aspersed him in her insane dread. Arthur thought of the wicked invention she had raised, and passed his hands upon his face as if he could shut out its remembrance.
"What became of Rabbetson?" he asked, in low tones.
"He disappeared. Or I think I should surely have shot him in his turn, or kicked him to death. I saw him afterwards in Australia dying in the most abject misery."
"And the claims?--the bills?"
"I took them upon myself; and contrived to pay all--with time."
"You left India for Australia?" continued Arthur, after a pause.
"My health failed, and I petitioned government to remove me to a different climate. They complied, and sent me to Australia. I stayed there, trying to accumulate a competency that should enable me to live at home with Ellen as befitted my family: little supposing that I was destined to become its head. My two cousins, Sir Archibald's sons, have died one after the other."
Arthur Bohun had heard all he wished to know, perhaps all there was to tell. If--if he could make his peace with Ellen, the old relations between them might yet be renewed. But whilst his heart bounded with the hope, the red of shame crimsoned his brow as he thought of the past. Glancing at the timepiece on the mantel-shelf, he saw it was only half-past nine; not too late yet.
"May I see your daughter, sir?" he asked. "We used to be good friends."
"So I suppose," replied Sir William. "You made love to her, Arthur Bohun. You would have married her, I believe, but that I stopped it."
"You--stopped it!" exclaimed Arthur, at sea: for he had known nothing of the letter received by Ellen.
"I wrote to Ellen, telling her I must forbid her to marry you. I feared at the time of writing that the interdict might arrive too late. But it seems that it did not do so."
"Yes," abstractedly returned Arthur, letting pass what he did not understand.
"You see, I had been thinking of you always as belonging to her--your mother--more than to him. That mistake is over. I shall value you now ashisson; more I dare say than I shall ever value any other young man in this world."
Arthur's breath came fast and thick. "Then--you--you would give her to me, sir!"
Sir William shook his head in sadness. Arthur misunderstood the meaning.
"The probability is, sir, that I shall succeed my uncle in the baronetcy. Would it not satisfy you?"
"You can see her if you will," was Sir William's answer, but there was the same sad sort of denial in his manner. "I would not say No now for your father's sake. She is in the drawing-room, upstairs. I will join you as soon as I have written a note."
Arthur found his way by instinct. Ellen was lying back in an easy-chair; the brilliant light of the chandelier on her face. Opening the door softly, it--that face--was the first object that met his sight. And he started back in terror.
Was itdeaththat he saw written there? All too surely conviction came home to him.
It was a more momentous interview than the one just over. Explaining he knew not how, explaining he knew not what, excepting that his love had never left her, Arthur Bohun knelt at her feet, and they mingled their tears together. For some minutes neither could understand the other: but elucidation came at last. Arthur told her that the wicked tale, the frightful treachery which had parted them was only a concocted fable on his mother's part, and then he found that Ellen had never known, never heard anything, about it.
"What then did you think was the matter with me?" he asked.
And she told him. She told him without reserve, now that she found how untrue it was: she thought he had given her up for another. Madam had informed her he was about to marry Miss Dallory.
He took in the full sense of what the words implied: the very abject light in which his conduct must have appeared to her. A groan burst from him: he covered his face to hide its shame and trouble.
"Ellen! Ellen! You could not have thought it of me."
"It was what I did think. How was I to think anything else? Your mother had said it."
"Heaven forgive her her sins!" he wailed, in his despair. "It was enough to kill you, Ellen. No wonder you look like this."
She was panting a little. Her breathing seemed very laboured.
"Pray Heaven I may be enabled to make it up to you when you are my wife. I will try hard, my darling."
"I shall not live for it, Arthur."
His heart seemed to stand still. The words struck him as being so very real.
"Arthur, I have known it for some time now. You must not grieve for me. I even think that death is rather near."
"What has killed you? I?"
A flush passed over her wan face. Yes, he had killed her. That is, his conduct had done so: the sensitive crimson betrayed it.
"The probability is that I should not in any case have lived long," she said, aloud. "I believe they feared something of the sort for me years ago. Arthur, don't! Don't weep; I cannot bear it."
Sir William Adair had just told him how his father had wept inhismisery. And before Arthur could well collect himself, Sir William entered.
"You see," he whispered aside to Arthur, "why it may not be. There will be no marriage for her in this life. I am not surprised. I seem to have always expected it: my wife, her mother, died of decline."
Arthur Bohun quitted the house, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow. What regret is there like unto that for past mistaken conduct which can never be remedied in this world?
Once more the scene changes to Dallory.
Seated on a lawn-bench at Dallory Hall in the sweet spring sunshine--for the time has again gone on--was Ellen Adair. Sir William Adair and Arthur Bohun were pacing amidst the flower-beds that used to be Mr. North's. Arthur stooped and plucked a magnificent pink hyacinth.
"It is not treason, sir?" he asked, smiling.
"What is not treason?" returned the elder man.
"To pick this."
"Pick as many as you like," said Sir William.
"Mr. North never liked us to pluck his flowers. Now and then madam would make a ruthless swoop upon them for her entertainments. It grieved his heart."
"No wonder," said Sir William.
The restoration to the old happiness, the disappearance of the dreadful cloud that had told so fatally upon her, seemed to infuse new vigour into Ellen's shortening span of life. With the exception of her father, every one thought she was recovering: the doctors admitted, rather dubiously, that it "might be so." She passed wonderfully well through the winter, went out and about almost as of old; and when more genial weather set in, it was suggested by friends that she should be taken to a warmer climate. Ellen opposed it; she knew it would not avail, perhaps only hasten the end; and after a private interview Sir William had with the doctors, even he did not second it. Her great wish was to go back to Dallory: and arrangements for their removal were made.
Dallory Hall was empty, and Sir William found that he could occupy it for the present if he pleased. Mr. North had removed to the house that had been Mrs. Cumberland's, leaving his own furniture: in point of fact it was Richard's: at the Hall, hoping the next tenant, whoever that might prove to be, would take to it. Miss Dallory seemed undecided what to do with the Hall, whether to let it for a term again, or not, But she was quite willing that Sir William Adair should have it for a month or two.
And so he came down with Ellen, bringing his own servants with him. This was only the third day after their arrival, and Arthur Bohun had arrived. Sir William had told him he might come when he would.
The change seemed to have improved Ellen, and she had received a few visitors. Mrs. Gass had been there; Mr. North had come down; and Richard ran in for a few minutes every day. Sir William welcomed them all; Mrs. Gass warmly; for she was sister-in-law to Mrs. Cumberland, and Ellen had told him of Mrs. Gass's goodness of heart. She had unfastened her bonnet, and stayed luncheon with them.
Mr. North was alone in his new home, and was likely to be so; for his wife had relieved him of her society. Violently indignant at the prospect of removal from such a habitation as the Hall to that small home of the late Mrs. Cumberland's, madam went off to London with Matilda, and took Sir Nash Bohun's house by storm. Not an hour, however, had she been in it, when madam found all her golden dreams must be scattered to the winds. Never again would Sir Nash receive her as a guest or tolerate her presence. The long hidden truth, as connected with his unfortunate brother's death, had been made clear to him: first of all by General Strachan, next by Sir William Adair, with whom he became intimate.
Of what use to tell of the interview between Arthur and his mother? It was of a painful character. There was no outspoken reproach, no voice was raised. In a subdued manner, striving for calmness, Arthur told her she had wilfully destroyed both himself and Ellen Adair; her life, for she was dying; his happiness for ever. He recapitulated all that had been disclosed to him relating to his father's death; and madam, brought to bay, never attempted to deny its accuracy.
"But that I dare not fly in the face of one of Heaven's Commandments, I would now cast you off for ever," he concluded in his bitter pain. "Look upon you again as my mother, I cannot. I will help you when you need help; so far will I act the part of a son towards you; but all respect for you has been forced out of me; and I would prefer that we should not meet very often."
Madam departed the same day for Germany, Matilda and the maid Parrit in her wake. Letters came from her to say she should never return to Dallory; never; probably never set her foot again on British soil; and therefore she desired that a suitable income might be secured to her abroad.
And so Mr. North had his new residence all to himself--saving Richard. Jelly had taken up her post as his housekeeper, with a boy and a maid under her; and there was one outdoor gardener. She domineered over all to her heart's content. Jelly was regaining some of her lost flesh, and more than her lost spirits. Set at rest in a confidential interview with Mr. Richard, as to the very tangible nature of the apparition she had seen, Jelly was herself again. Mr. North thought his garden lovely, more compact than the extensive one at the Hall; he was out in it all day long, and felt at peace. Mrs. Gass came to see him often; Mary Dallory almost daily: he had his good son Richard to bear him company of an evening. Altogether Mr. North was in much comfort. Dr. Rane's house remained empty: old Phillis, to whom the truth had also been disclosed, taking care of it. The doctor's personal effects had been sent to him by Richard.
"Ellen looks much better, sir," remarked Arthur Bohun, as he twirled the pink hyacinth he had plucked.
"A little fresher, perhaps, from the country air," answered Sir William.
"I have not lost hope: she may yet be mine," he murmured.
Sir William did not answer. He would give her to Arthur now with his whole heart, had her health permitted it. Arthur himself looked ill; in the last few months he seemed to have aged years. A terrible remorse was ever upon him; his life, in its unavailing regret, seemed as one long agony.
They turned to where she was sitting. "Would you not like to walk a little, Ellen?" asked her father.
She rose at once. Arthur held out his arm, and she took it. Sir William was quite content that it should be so: Arthur, and not himself. The three paced the lawn. Ellen wore a lilac silk gown and warm white cloak. An elegant girl yet, though worn almost to a shadow, with the same sweet face as of yore.
But she was soon tired, and sat down again, Arthur by her side. One of the gardeners came up for some orders, and Sir William went away with him.
"I have not been so happy for many a day, Ellen, as I am now," began Captain Bohun. "You are looking quite yourself again. I think--in a little time--that you may be mine."
A blush, beautiful as the rose-flush of old, sat for a moment on her cheeks. She knew how fallacious was the hope.
"I am nearly sure that Sir William thinks so, and will soon give you to me," he added.
"Arthur," she said, putting her wan and wasted hand on his, "don't take the hope to heart. The--disappointment, when it came, would be all the harder to bear."
"But, my darling, you are surely better!"
"Yes, I seem so, just for a little time. But I fear that I shall never be well enough to be your wife."
"It was so very near once, you know," was all he whispered.
There was no one within view, and they sat, her hand clasped in his. The old expressive silence that used to lie between them of old, ensued now. They could not tell to each other more than they had told already. In the unexpected reconciliation that had come, in the bliss it brought, all had been disclosed. Arthur had heard all about her self-humiliation and anguish; he knew of the treasured violets, and their supposed treachery: she had listened to his recital of the weeks of despair; she had seen the letter, written to him from Eastsea, worn with his kisses, blotted with his tsars, and kept in his bosom still. No: of the past there was nothing more to tell each other; so far, they were at rest.
Arthur Bohun was still unconsciously twirling that pink hyacinth in his fingers. Becoming aware of the fact, he offered it to her. A wan smile parted her lips.
"You should not have given it, to me, Arthur."
"Why?"
Ellen took it up. The perfume was very strong.
"Why should I not have given it to you?"
"Don't you know what the hyacinth is an emblem of?"
"No."
"Death."
One quick, pained glance at her. She was smiling yet, and looking rather fondly at the flower. Captain Bohun took both flower and hand into his.
"I always thought you liked hyacinths, Ellen."
"I have always liked them very much indeed. And I like the perfume--although it is somewhat faint and sickly."
He quietly flung the flower on the grass, and put his boot on it to stamp out its beauty. A truer emblem of death, now, than it was before; but he did not think of that.
"I'll find you a sweeter flower presently, Ellen. And you know----"
A visitor was crossing the lawn to approach them. It was Miss Dallory. She had not yet been to see Ellen. Something said by Mrs. Gass had sent her now. Happening to call on Mrs. Gass that morning, Mary heard for the first time of the love that had so long existed between Captain Bohun and Miss Adair, and that the course of the love had been forcibly interrupted by madam, who had put forth the plea that her son was engaged to Miss Dallory.
Mary sat before Mrs. Gass in mute surprise, recalling facts and fancies. "I know that madam would have liked her son to marry me; the hints she gave me on the point were too broad to be mistaken," she observed to Mrs. Gass. "Neither I nor Captain Bohun had any thought or intention of the sort; we understood each other too well."
"Yet you once took me in," said Mrs. Gass.
Mary laughed. "It was only in sport: I did not think you were serious."
"They believed it at the Hall."
"Oh, did they? So much the better."
"My dear, I am afraid it was not for the better," dissented Mrs. Gass rather solemnly. "They say that it has killed Miss Ellen Adair."
"What?" exclaimed Mary.
"Ever since that time when she first went to the Hall after Mrs. Cumberland's death, she has been wasting and wasting away. Her father, Sir William, has now brought her to Dallory, not to try if the change might restore her, for nothing but a miracle would do that, but because she took a whim to come. Did you hear that she was very ill?"
"Yes, I heard so."
"Well, then, I believe it is nothing but this business that has made her ill--Captain Bohun's deserting her for you. She was led to believe it was so--and until then, they had been wrapt up in each other."
Mary Dallory felt her face grow hot and cold. She had been altogether innocent of ill intention; but the words struck a strange chill of repentance to her heart.
"I--don't understand," she said in frightened tones. "Captain Bohun knew there was nothing between us; not even a shadow of pretence of it: why did he not tell her so?"
"Because he and she had parted on another score; they had been parted through a lie of madam's, who wanted him to marry you. I don't rightly know what the lie was; something frightfully grave; something he could not repeat again to Miss Adair; and Ellen Adair never heard it, and thought it was as madam said--that his love had gone over to you."
Mary sat in silence, thinking of the past. There was a long pause.
"How did you get to know this?" she breathed.
"Ah, well--partly through Mr. Richard. And I sat an hour talking with poor Miss Ellen yesterday, and caught a hint or two then."
"I will set it straight," said Mary; feeling, though without much cause, bitterly repentant.
"My dear, it has been all set straight since the winter. Nevertheless, Miss Mary, it was too late. Madam had done her crafty work well."
"Madam deserves to be put in the stocks," was the impulsive rejoinder of Miss Dallory.
She went to the Hall there and then. And this explains her present approach. Things had cleared very much to her as she walked along. She had never been able to account for the manner in which Ellen seemed to shun her, to avoid all approach to intimacy or friendship. That Mary Dallory had favoured the impression abroad of Arthur Bohun's possible engagement to her, she was now all too conscious of; or, at any rate, had not attempted to contradict it. But it had never occurred to her that she was doing harm to any one.
Just as Arthur Bohun had started when he first saw Ellen in the winter, so did Miss Dallory start now. Wan and wasted? ay, indeed. Mary felt half faint in thinking of the share she had had in it.
She said nothing at first. Room was made for her on the bench, and they talked of indifferent matters. Sir William came up, and was introduced. Presently he and Arthur strolled to a distance.
Then Mary spoke. Just a word or two of the misapprehension that had existed; then a burst of exculpation.
"Ellen, I would have died rather than have caused you pain. Oh if I had only known! Arthur and I were familiar with each other as brother and sister: never a thought of anything else was in our minds. If I let people think there was, why--it was done in coquetry. I had some one else in my head, you see, all the time; and that's the truth. And I am afraid I enjoyed the disappointment that would ensue for madam."
Ellen smiled faintly. "It seems to have been a complication altogether. A sort of ill-fate that I suppose there was no avoiding."
"You must get well, and be his wife."
"Ay. I wish I could."
But none could be wishing that as Arthur did. Hope deceived him; he confidently thought that a month or two would see her his. Just for a few days the deceitful improvement in her continued.
One afternoon they drove to Dallory churchyard. Ellen and her father; Arthur sitting opposite them in the carriage. A fancy had taken her that she would once more look on Mrs. Cumberland's grave; and Sir William said he should himself like to see it.
The marble stone was up now, with its inscription: "Fanny, widow of the Reverend George Cumberland, Government Chaplain, and daughter of the late William Gass, Esq., of Whitborough." There was no mention of her marriage to Captain Rane. Perhaps Dr. Rane fancied the name was not in very good odour just now, and so omitted it. The place where the ground had been disturbed, to take up those other coffins, had been filled in again with earth.
Ellen drew Sir William's attention to a green spot near, overshadowed by the branches of a tree that waved in the breeze, and flickered the grass beneath with ever-changing light and shade.
"It is the prettiest spot in the churchyard," she said, touching his arm. "And yet no one has ever chosen it."
"It is very pretty, Ellen; but solitary."
"Will you let it be here, papa?"
He understood the soft whisper, and slightly nodded, compressing his lips. Sir William was not deceived. Years had elapsed, but, to him, it seemed to be his wife's case over again. There had been no hope for her; there was none for Ellen.
She lay back in an easy-chair, in the little room that was once Mr. North's parlour. The window was thrown open to the sweet flowers, the balmy air; and Ellen Adair drank in their beauty and perfume.
She took to this room as her own sitting-room the day she came back to the Hall. She had always liked it. Sir William had caused the shabby old carpet and chairs and tables to be replaced by fresh bright furniture. How willingly, had it been possible, would he have kept her in life!
Just for a few days had hope lasted--no more. The change had come suddenly, and was unmistakable. She wore a white gown, tied round the waist with a pink girdle, and a little bow of pink ribbon--her favourite colour--at the neck. She wished to look well yet; her toilet was attended to, her bright hair was arranged carefully as ever. But the maid did all that. The wan face was very sweet still, the soft brown eyes had all their old lustre. Very listless was the worn white hand lying on her lap; loosely sat the plain gold ring on it--the ring that, through all the toil and trouble, had never been taken off. Ellen was alone. Sir William had gone by appointment to see over Richard North's works.
A sound as of steps on the gravel. Her father could not have come back yet! A moment's listening, and then the hectic flushed to her face; for she knew the step too well. Captain Bohun had returned!
Captain Bohun had gone to London to see Sir Nash off on his projected Continental journey to the springs that were to make him young again. Sir Nash had expected Arthur to accompany him, but he now acknowledged that Ellen's claims were paramount to his. Ellen had thought he might have been back again yesterday.
He came in at the glass-doors, knowing he should probably find her in the room. But his joyous smile died away when he saw her face. His step halted: his hand dropped at his side.
"Ellen!"
In timid, wailing tones was the word spoken. Only three days' absence, and she had faded like this! Was it a relapse?--or what had she been doing to cause the change?
For a few minutes, perhaps neither of them was sufficiently collected to know what passed. In his abandonment, he knelt by the chair, holding her hands, his eyes dropping tears. The remorse ever gnawing at his heart was very cruel just then. Ellen bent towards him, and whispered that he must be calm--must bear like a man: things were only drawing a little nearer.
"I should have been down yesterday, but I waited in town to make sundry purchases and preparations," he said. "Ellen, I thought that--perhaps--next month--your father would have given you over to me."
"Did you?" she faintly answered.
"You must be mine," he continued, in too deep emotion to weigh his words. "If you were to die first, I--I think it would kill me."
"Look at me," was all she answered. "See whether it is possible."
"There's no knowing. It might restore you. Fresh scenes, the warm pure climate that I would take you to--we would find one somewhere--might do wonders. I pointed this out to Sir William in the winter."
"But I have not been well enough for it, Arthur."
"Ellen, it must be! Why, you know that you were almost my wife. Half-an-hour later, and you would have been."
She released one of her hands, and put it up to her face.
Captain Bohun grew more earnest in his pleading; he was really thinking this thing might be.
"I shall declare the truth to Sir William--and I know that I ought to have done so before, Ellen. When he knows how very near we were to being man and wife, he will make no further objection to giving you to me now. My care and love will restore you, if anything can."
She had put down her hand again, and was looking at him, a little startled and her cheeks hectic.
"Arthur, hush. Papa must never know this while I live. Do as you will afterwards."
"I shall tell him before the day's out," persisted Captain Bohun. And she began to tremble with agitation.
"No, no. I say no. I should die with the shame."
"What shame?" he rejoined.
"The shame that--that--fell upon me. The shame of--after having consented to a secret marriage, you should have left me as you did, and not fulfilled it, and never told me why. It lies upon me still, and I cannot help it. I think it is that that has helped to kill me more than all the rest. Oh, Arthur, forgive me for saying this! But do not renew the shame now."
Never had his past conduct been brought so forcibly home to him. Never had his heart so ached with its repentance and pain.
"The fear, lest the secret should be discovered, lay upon me always," she whispered. "Whilst I was staying here that time it seemed to me one long mental torment. Had the humiliation come, I could never have borne it. Spare me still, Arthur."
Every word she spoke was like a dagger thrusting its sharp point into his heart.Shewas going--going rapidly--where neither pain nor humiliation could reach her. But he had, in all probability, a long life before him, and must live out his bitter repentance.
"Oh, my love, my love! I wish I could die for you!"
"Don't grieve, Arthur; I shall be better off. You and papa must comfort one another."
He was unconsciously turning round the plain gold ring on her wasted hand, a sob now and again breaking from him. How real the past was seeming to him; even the hour when he had put that ring on, and the words he spoke with it, were very present. What remained of it all? Nothing, except that she was dying.
"I should like to give you this key now, whilst I am well enough to remember," she suddenly said, detaching a small key from her watch-chain. "It belongs to my treasure-box, as I used to call it at school. They will give it you when I am dead."
"Oh, Ellen!"
"The other ring is in it, and the licence--for I did not burn it, as you bade me that day in the churchyard; and the two or three letters you ever wrote to me; and my journal, and some withered flowers, and other foolish trifles. You can do what you like with them, Arthur; they will be yours then. And oh, Arthur! if you grieve any more now, like this, you will hurt me, for I cannot bear that you should suffer pain. God bless you, my darling, my almost husband! We should have been very happy with one another."
Lower and lower bent he his aching brow, striving to suppress the anguish that well-nigh unmanned him. Her own tears were falling.
"Be comforted," she whispered; "Arthur, be comforted! It will not be for so many years, even at the most; and then we shall be together again, in heaven!"