MORNING VISITORS.
In the dining-room at Mrs. Cumberland's, with its window open to the
garden and the sweet flowers, stood Ellen Adair. It was the favourite
morning-room. Mrs. Cumberland, down in good time to-day, for it was
scarcely eleven o'clock, had stepped into the garden, and disappeared
amidst its remoter parts.
Ellen Adair, dressed in a cool pink muslin, almost as thin as gauze,
stood in a reverie. A pleasant one, to judge by the soft blush on her
face and the sweet smile that parted her lips. She was twirling the
plain gold ring round and round her finger, thinking no doubt of the
hour when it had been put on, and the words spoken with it. Bessy Rane
had altogether refused to give back the ring she was married with, and
Ellen retained the other.
The intimacy with Arthur Bohun, the silent love-making, had continued.
Even now, she was listening lest haply his footsteps might be heard;
listening with hushed breath and beating heart. Never a day passed but
he contrived to call, on some plea or other, at Mrs. Cumberland's,
morning, afternoon, or evening: and this morning he might be coming,
for aught she knew. At the close of the past summer, Mrs. Cumberland
had gone to the Isle of Wight for change of air, taking Ellen and her
maid Jelly with her. She hired a secluded cottage in the neighbourhood
of Niton. Singular to relate, Captain Bohun remembered that he had
friends at Niton--an old invalid brother-officer, who was living there
in great economy. On and off, during the whole time of Mrs.
Cumberland's stay--and it lasted five months, for she had gone the
beginning of September, and did not return home until the end of
February--was Arthur Bohun paying visits to this old friend. Now for a
day or two; now for a week or two; once for three weeks together. And
still Mrs. Cumberland suspected nothing! It was as if her eyes were
withheld. Perhaps they were: there is a destiny in all things, and it
must be worked out. It is true that she did not see or suspect half
the intimacy. A gentle walk once a-day by the sea was all she took. At
other times Ellen rambled at will; sometimes attended by Jelly, alone
when Jelly could not be spared. Captain Bohun took every care of her,
guarding her more jealously than he would have guarded a sister: and
this did a little surprise Mrs. Cumberland.
"We ought to feel very much obliged to Captain Bohun, Ellen," she said
on one occasion. "It is not many a young man would sacrifice his time
to us. Your father and his, and my husband, the chaplain, were warm
friends for a short time in India: it must be his knowledge of this
that induces him to be so attentive. Very civil of him!"
Ellen coloured vividly. Eminently truthful, she yet did not dare to
say that perhaps that was _not_ Captain Bohun's reason for being
attentive. How could she hint at Captain Bohun's love, clear though it
was to her own heart, when he had never spoken a syllable to her about
it? It was not possible. So things went on in the same routine: he and
she wandering together on the sea-shore: both of them living in a
dream of Elysium. In February, when they returned home, the scene was
changed, but not the companionship. It was an early spring that year,
warm and genial. Many and many an hour were they together in that
seductive garden of Mrs. Cumberland's, with its miniature rocks, its
velvety grass; the birds sang and their own hearts danced for joy.
But Mrs. Cumberland's eyes were not to be always closed.
It was not to be expected that so lovely a girl as Ellen Adair should
remain long without a declared suitor. Especially when there was a
rumour that she would inherit a fortune--though how the latter arose
people would have been puzzled to say. A gentleman of position in the
neighbourhood; no other than Mr. Graves, son of one of the county
members; began to make rather pointed visits at Mrs. Cumberland's.
That his object was Ellen Adair, and that he would most likely ask her
to become his wife, Mrs. Cumberland clearly saw. She wrote to Mr.
Adair in Australia, telling him she thought Ellen was about to receive
an offer of marriage, in every way eligible. The young man was of high
character, good family, and large means, she said: should she, if the
proposal came, accept it for Ellen. By a singular omission, which
perhaps Mrs. Cumberland was not conscious of, she did not mention Mr.
Graves's name. But the proposal came sooner than Mrs. Cumberland had
bargained for: barely was this letter despatched--about which, with
her usual reticence, she said not a word to any one--when Mr. Graves
proposed to Ellen and was refused.
It was this that opened Mrs. Cumberland's eyes to the nature of the
friendship between Ellen and Captain Bohun. She then wrote a second
letter to Mr. Adair, saying Ellen had refused Mr. Graves in
consequence, as she strongly suspected, of an attachment to Arthur
Bohun--son of Major Bohun, whom Mr. Adair once knew so well. That
Arthur Bohun would wish to make Ellen his wife, there could be, Mrs.
Cumberland thought from observation, no doubt whatever: might he be
accepted? In a worldly point of view, Captain Bohun was not so
desirable as Mr. Graves, she added--unless indeed he should succeed to
his uncle's baronetcy, which was not very improbable, the present heir
being sickly--but he would have enough to live upon as a gentleman,
and he was liked by every one. This second letter was also despatched
to Australia by the mail following the one that carried the first.
Having thus done her duty, Mrs. Cumberland sat down to wait for Mr.
Adair's answer, tacitly allowing the intimacy to continue, inasmuch as
she did not stop the visits of Arthur Bohun. Neither he nor Ellen
suspected what she had done.
And with the summer there had come another suitor to Ellen Adair. At
least another was displaying signs that he would like to become one.
It was Mr. Seeley, the doctor who had replaced Mr. Alexander. Soon
after Mrs. Cumberland's return from Niton in February, she had been
for a week or two alarmingly ill, and Mr. Seeley was called in as well
as her son. He had remained on terms of friendship at her house; and
it became evident that he very much admired Miss Adair.
Things were in this state on this summer's morning, and Ellen Adair
stood near the window twirling the plain gold ting on her finger.
Presently she came out of her reverie, unlocked a small letter-case,
and began to write in her diary.
"Tuesday.--Mrs. Cumberland talks of going away again. She seems to me
to grow thinner and weaker. Arthur says the same. He thinks----"
A knock at the front-door, and Mr. Seeley was shown in. He paid a
professional visit to Mrs. Cumberland at least every other morning.
Not as a professional man, he told her; but as a friend, that he might
see how she went on.
Miss Adair shook hands with him, her manner cold. He saw it not; and
his fingers parted lingeringly from hers.
"Mrs. Cumberland is in the garden, if you will go to her," said Ellen,
affecting to be quite occupied with her writing-case. "I think she
wants to see you; she is not at all well. You will find her in the
grotto, or somewhere about."
To this Mr. Seeley answered nothing, except that he was in no hurry,
and would look after Mrs. Cumberland by-and-by. He was a dark man of
about two-and-thirty, with a plain, honest face; straightforward in
disposition and manner, timid only when with Ellen Adair. He took a
step or two nearer Ellen, and began to address her in low tones,
pulling one of his gloves about nervously.
"I have been wishing for an opportunity to speak to you, Miss Adair.
There is a question that I--that I--should like to put to you. One I
have very much at heart."
It was coming. In spite of Ellen Adair's studied coldness, by which
she had meant him to learn that he must not speak, she saw that it was
coming. In the pause he made, as if he would wait for her permission
to go on, she felt miserably uncomfortable. Her nature was essentially
generous and sensitive; to have to refuse Mr. Seeley, or any one else,
made her feel as humiliated as though she had committed a crime. And
she could have esteemed the man apart from this.
They were thus standing: Mr. Seeley looking awkward and nervous, Ellen
turning red and white: when Arthur Bohun walked in. Mr. Seeley,
effectually interrupted for the time, muttered a good-morning to
Captain Bohun and went into the garden.
"What was Seeley saying, Ellen?"
"Nothing," she rather faintly answered.
"_Nothing!_"
Ellen glanced up at him. His face wore the haughty Bohun look; his
mouth betrayed scorn enough for ten proud Bohuns put together. She did
not answer.
"If he was saying 'nothing,' why should you be looking as you
did?--with a blush on your face, and your eyes cast down?"
"He had really said as good as nothing, Arthur. What he might have
been going to say, I--I don't know. He had only that moment come in."
"As you please," coldly returned Arthur, walking into the garden in
his turn. "If you do not think me worthy of your confidence, I have no
more to say."
The Bohun blood was bubbling up fiercely. Not doubting Ellen; not in
resentment against her--at least only so in the moment's anger: but in
indignation that Seeley, a common village practitioner, should dare to
lift his profane eyes to Ellen Adair. Captain Bohun had suspected the
man's hopes for some short time past; there is an instinct in these
things; and he felt outrageous over it. Tom Graves's venture had
filled him with resentment; but he at least was a gentleman and a man
of position.
Ellen, wonderfully disturbed, gently sat down to write again; all she
did was gentle. And the diary had a few sentences added to it.
"That senseless William Seeley! And after showing him as plainly as I
could, that it is useless--that I should consider it an impertinence
in him to attempt to speak to me. I don't know whether it was for the
worst or the best that Arthur should have come in just at that moment.
For the best because it stopped Mr. Seeley's nonsense; for the worst
because Arthur has now seen and is vexed. The vexation will not last,
for he knows better. Here they are."
Once more Ellen closed her diary. "Here they are," applied to the
doctor and Mrs. Cumberland. They were walking slowly towards the
window, conversing calmly on her ailments, and came in. Mrs.
Cumberland sat down with her newspaper. As Mr. Seeley took his
departure to visit other patients, Arthur Bohun returned. Close upon
that, Richard North was shown in. It seemed that Mrs. Cumberland was
to have many visitors that morning.
That Richard North should find his time hang somewhat on hand, was
only natural; he, the hitherto busy man, who had often wished the
day's hours doubled, for the work he had to do in it. Richard could
afford to make morning calls on his friends now, and he had come
strolling to Mrs. Cumberland's.
They sat down: Arthur in the remotest chair he could find from Ellen
Adair. She had taken up a bit of light work, and her fairy fingers
were deftly plying its threads. Richard sat near Ellen, facing Mrs.
Cumberland. He could not help thinking how lovely Ellen Adair was: the
fact had never struck him more forcibly than to-day.
"How is the strike getting on, Richard?"
Mrs. Cumberland laid down her newspaper to ask the question. No other
theme bore so much present interest in Dallory. From the time that
North and Gass first established the works, things had gone on with
uninterrupted smoothness, peace and plenty reigning on all sides. No
wonder this startling change seemed as a revolution.
"It is still going on," replied Richard. "How the men are getting on,
I don't like to think about. The wrong way, of course."
"Your proposition, to meet them half-way, was rejected, I hear."
"It was."
"What do they expect to come to?"
"To fortune, I suppose," returned Richard. "To refuse work and _not_
expect a fortune, must be rather a mistake. A poor look-out at the
best."
"But, according to the newspapers, Richard, one-half the
working-classes in the country are out on strike. Do you believe it?"
"A great number are out. And more are going out daily."
"And what is to become of them all?"
"I cannot tell you. The question, serious though it is, never appears
to occur to the men or their rulers."
"The journals say--living so much alone as I do, I have time to read
many of them, and I make it my chief recreation--that the work is
leaving the country," pursued Mrs. Cumberland.
"And so it is. It cannot be otherwise. Take a case of my own as an
example. A contract was offered me some days ago, and I could not take
it. Literally _could not_, Mrs. Cumberland. My men are out on strike,
and likely to be out; I had no means of performing it, and therefore
could only reject it. That contract, as I happen to know, has been
taken by a firm in Belgium. They have undertaken it at a cheaper rate
than I could possibly have done it at the best of times: for labour is
cheap there. It is quite true. The work that circumstances compelled
me to refuse, has gone over there to be executed, and I and my men are
playing in idleness."
"But what will be the end of it?" asked Mrs. Cumberland.
"The end of it? If you speak of the country, neither you nor I can
foresee the end."
"I spoke of the men. Not your men in particular, but all those that we
include under the name of British workmen: the great bodies of
artisans scattered in the various localities of the kingdom. What is
to become of these men if the work fails?"
"I see only one of three courses for them," said Richard, lifting his
hand in some agitation, for he spoke from the depth of his heart,
believing the subject to be of more awful gravity than any that had
stirred the community for some hundreds of years. "They must
eventually emigrate--provided the means to do so can be found; or they
must become burdens upon public charity; or they must lie down in the
streets and starve. As I live, I can foresee no better fate for them."
"And what of the country, if it comes to this?--if the work and the
workmen leave it?"
Richard North shrugged his shoulders. It was altogether a question too
difficult for him. He would have liked it answered from some one else
very much indeed; just as others would.
"Lively conversation!" interposed Captain Bohun, in a
half-satirical, half-joking manner, as he rose. It was the first time
he had spoken. "I think I must be going," he added, approaching Mrs.
Cumberland.
Richard made it the signal for his own departure. As they stood,
saying adieu, Bessy Rane was seen for a moment at her own window. Mrs.
Cumberland nodded.
"There's Bessy," exclaimed Richard. "I think I'll go and speak to her.
Will you pardon me, Mrs. Cumberland, if I make my exit from your house
this way?"
Mrs. Cumberland stepped outside herself, and Richard crossed the low
wire fence that divided the two gardens. Arthur Bohun went to the
door, without having said a word of farewell to Ellen Adair. He stood
with it in his hand looking at her, smiled, and was returning, when
Mrs. Cumberland came in again.
"Won't you come and say goodbye to me here, Ellen?"
The invitation was given in so low a tone that she gathered it by the
form of the lips rather than by the ear; perhaps by instinct also.
She went out, and they walked side by side in silence to the open
hall-door. Dallory Ham, in its primitive ways and manners, left its
house-doors open with perfect safety by day to the summer air.
Outside, between the house and the gate, was a small bed planted with
flowers. Arrived at the door, Captain Bohun could find nothing better
to talk of than these, as he stood with her on the crimson mat.
"I think those lilies are finer than Mr. North's."
"Mrs. Cumberland takes so much pains with her flowers," was Ellen's
answer. "And she is very fond of lilies."
They stepped out, bending over these self-same lilies. Ellen picked
one. He quietly took it from her.
"Forgive me, Ellen," he murmured. "I am not a bear in general.
Goodbye."
As they stood, her hand in his, her flushed face downcast, Mrs.
North's open carriage rolled past. Madam's head was suddenly propelled
towards them as far as safety permitted: her eyes glared: a stony
horror sat on her countenance.
"Shameful! Disgraceful!" hissed madam. And Miss Matilda North, by her
side, started up to see what the shame might be.
Arthur Bohun had caught the words--not Ellen--and bit his lips in a
complication of feeling.
But all he did was to raise his hat--first to his mother, then to
Ellen--as he went out at the gate. Madam flung herself back in her
seat, and the carriage pursued its course up the Ham.