AT THE SEASIDE.
The summer was slowly passing. At a small and obscure seaside place on
the East coast Mrs. Cumberland was located. She had engaged part of
one of the few good houses there--houses that let at an enormous price
in the season to visitors--and lived in it with Ellen Adair, and her
maid to wait on her. Not Jelly this time, but the housemaid Ann. The
interior of Mrs. Cumberland's own house at Dallory was being painted
during her absence. She had deemed it well to leave Jelly in charge:
and brought Ann instead.
They had been in this place, Eastsea, for some weeks now; and Ellen
privately believed that this sojourn was never coming to an end. Any
thing more wearisome than it was to her, could not have been found.
Arthur Bohun was in London at his uncle's, where he had been staying
for some time. It was several weeks since he and Ellen had met: to her
it seemed as many months. James Bohun was still ill, but fluctuated
much; at one time appearing to be beyond recovery, at another as if he
were almost well again. He would not part with Arthur; Sir Nash said
he must not think of leaving. Under the circumstances, Arthur did not
see his way clear to getting away.
Another person was fluctuating. And that was Mrs. Cumberland. Her
complaint, connected with the heart, was one of those that may snap
life suddenly, or allow it to be prolonged for years. That she was
gradually growing worse, was undoubted; but it was by almost
imperceptible degrees. No change could be noted from day to day; it
was only by comparing her present state with what it had been three,
six, or twelve months before, that the change could be seen.
Sometimes, for days together, she would feel very ill, be quite unable
to quit her room; and again she would have an interval of ease, almost
of seeming recovery, and walk and drive out daily. Dr. Rane had come
over twice to see his mother: staying on each occasion only a few
hours. His opinion was, that she might yet, with care, live for years;
and probably many years. At the same time, he knew that there could be
no certainty of it.
It was during this sojourn at Eastsea that Mrs. Cumberland received
news from Mr. Adair. He wrote in answer to Mrs. Cumberland's
letter--the first of the two letters already alluded to--wherein she
had spoken of the probability of Ellen's being sought in marriage by a
gentleman in every way desirable, but in which she had omitted,
probably from inadvertence, to mention the gentleman's name. Mr.
Adair's answer, now received, was to the effect that--fully relying on
Mrs. Cumberland's judgment--he could not desire better for his
daughter than that so suitable a marriage should be entered into; and
accorded it his cordial consent.
But this involved a most unhappy contretemps: of which no one as yet
was, or could be, conscious. That first letter of Mrs. Cumberland's
had alluded to Mr. Graves: _she imagined this consent to apply to
Arthur Bohun_. It takes time, as every one knows, for a letter to
reach Australia from England and an answer to be returned. Whether,
during those intervening weeks, Mrs. Cumberland actually forgot that
her first letter had applied to Mr. Graves: or whether in her invalid
state, memory had grown confused, and she remembered only the last
letter, must ever remain a question. Certain it was, that she accepted
this present approbation of Mr. Adair's as applying to Arthur Bohun.
It might be, that she had altogether forgotten having written about
Mr. Graves.
With her usual reticence, she said nothing to Ellen Adair. Not a word.
Time enough for that when Arthur Bohun should speak--if he ever did
speak. She held the consent ready for use if necessity ever required
it: and was at ease.
"Ellen, how listless you seem!"
Ellen Adair looked up, faintly blushing at the abrupt charge, which
came from Mrs. Cumberland.
"Listless!" exclaimed Ellen.
"My dear, it is nothing less. I don't think you care for Eastsea."
"Not very much. At least--it is rather dull."
"Well, I suppose you can only find it so; confined to the house half
my time, as I am. At Niton you had often Captain Bohun to go out with;
now you have to go out alone."
Ellen turned away, a soft blush rising to her face at the remembrance
of Niton, "Shall you be going home soon, do you think, Mrs.
Cumberland?" she asked.
"Oh dear no. I had a note from Jelly this morning, and she says the
house is not half ready. Workpeople are so lazy! Once you get them
into a place you can't get them out again. But if Jelly were ready for
us I should still not go. This air is doing me good on the whole.
Perhaps I shall remain the winter here."
Ellen's heart fell within her. All the autumn in this place, that
verily seemed to her the fag end of the world, and all the winter!
Should she _ever_ again get the chance of seeing her heart's love,
Arthur Bohun? And he?--perhaps he was forgetting her.
"Do you feel well enough to come out, Mrs. Cumberland?"
"No. I am sorry, Ellen, but you must go alone. Put on your things at
once, child: the afternoon will be passing."
Ellen sighed. It was of no moment to her whether she went out or
stayed in: she obeyed mechanically, and went forth. Quite alone.
Generally speaking Ann attended her, but the servant was this
afternoon wanted by her mistress.
The sunshine played on the clear blue sea, ever changing its lovely
hues, as the light autumn clouds floated above it in the sky. Ellen
Adair sat in a sheltered spot and watched it. It was her favourite
seat: one hewn out of the rocks, and apparently frequented only by
herself, as she had never yet been disturbed in it. Excepting the
small strip of beach before her, nothing was to be seen from it but
sea and sky. Overhead, she could hear the children's voices at play:
the tide below was coming in with gentle monotony. Ellen had a book
with her, and she had her diary; she had read a few pages in the one,
she had written some lines in pencil in the other: and so the hours
passed, and she was utterly dreary. The weary day was only the type of
the other weary days that at present made up the sum total of her
life.
"Will it ever come to an end?" she murmured, having watched a tiny
pleasure-boat shoot past and disappear, leaving her to her silent
solitude. "Shall we ever get back to Dallory Ham, and--the friends who
live there? I suppose a winter _might_ be got through and survived in
this place, but----"
A gentleman in deep mourning walking on the strip of beach, looking to
right and left. Ellen's thoughts were summarily ended, and she rose
with a faint cry: the cry of intense joy that in its sound is so near
akin to that of exquisite pain.
For it was no other than Captain Arthur Bohun. He had not heard it;
but he saw her; it was for her he had been searching: and he turned
with an outstretched hand. For a moment she felt utterly bewildered,
half doubting the reality of the vision. But oh yes, it was he; it was
he! The sea and sky, the rocks, and the monotony--all had changed into
paradise.
"How do you do, Ellen?"
Nothing more than this commonplace greeting was spoken. They stood in
silence, their hands clasped. His lips were quivering slightly,
proving how ardent was the feeling that stirred him at their renewed
meeting; Ellen, blushing and paling by turns, was agitated almost to
pain. Sitting down quietly by her side on the ledge of rock he
accounted for his unexpected appearance. On his arrival at Eastsea
that afternoon, he had gone at once to call at Mrs. Cumberland's. Ann
said her mistress was lying down, and that Miss Adair was on the
beach.
"Did you think I was never coming to see you, Ellen? I thought so. I
could not get away from my uncle's whilst James was so ill."
"Is he--dead?" hesitated Ellen, looking pointedly at the black
clothes.
"Oh no. It is a cousin of Sir Nash's and of my father's who is dead: a
very old man who has lived for years in the South of France. James
Bohun is very much better."
"I thought, by the deep mourning, it must be."
"Is it deep? I suppose it looks so. I should not wish it otherwise in
the present instance, for the good old man has been generous to me."
They fell into silence, each feeling the rapture of the other's
presence, after the prolonged separation, as something more than
human. So intense was it that Ellen, at least, might have been content
to die in it there and then. The sea changed its beautiful colours,
the sky seemed to smile on them, the children played overhead, a
silvery flute from some unseen boat in the distance was softly
playing. No: Eden could never have been sweeter than this.
"What have you been doing, all this time by yourself at Eastsea?" he
at length asked her.
"Very much what I am doing now, I think--sitting here to watch the
sea," she answered. "There has been nothing else to do. It was always
dull."
"Has Mrs. Cumberland had any visitors?"
"Dr. Rane has been here twice. He gives a bad account of things at
Dallory. The strike shows no signs of coming to an end; and the men
are in want."
"So Dick says. I get a letter from him sometimes."
A great amount of talking, this. The tide turned; a big steamer went
by in the distance.
"Do you hear that, Ellen?"
A man's soft tenor voice had struck up a love-song overhead: "Ellen
Adair," Robin Adair, as the world more often has it. Arthur Bohun used
to hear it sung as "Ellin Adair," when he was recovering from his
wound in Ireland; the Irish insisted on it that so it was in the
original song; and he had sometimes asked Ellen to sing it so for him
since. The children ceased their play; the verses went on, and these
two below the rocks, unseen, listened to the end, catching every word
distinctly.
"Yet her I loved so well,
Still in my heart shall dwell.
Oh! I shall ne'er forget
Ellen Adair."
"Nor I," softly spoke Arthur, as the refrain died away.
Mrs. Cumberland was up when they got in. Ann had told her of Captain
Bohun's appearance and that he had gone to find Miss Adair. Mrs.
Cumberland took a few minutes for consideration, and then decided on
her course of conduct, and that was to speak to Captain Bohun.
It might have been all very well, whilst she was armed with no
authority, tacitly to countenance Captain Bohun's frequent visits; but
now that she had authority, she deemed it right, in justice to Ellen,
to take a different standing. If Captain Bohun had serious intentions,
well and good; if not, she should request him to bring the intimacy to
a close. Feeling the responsibility that lay upon her as the sole
guardian in Europe of Ellen Adair, she thought she should be justified
in saying so much, for, unless Arthur Bohun proposed to make the young
lady his wife, it was cruel to allow her to fall in love with him.
When Mrs. Cumberland once made her mind up to any resolve, she did not
usually lose time in putting it into practice, and she lost none here.
Taking the opportunity this same evening, when Ellen was out of the
room; sent from it by herself on some errand of excuse; she spoke to
Captain Bohun.
But the most fastidious man living could not have taken exception to
what she said. She spoke quite as a lady. Captain Bohun's appearance
that day at Eastsea--coupled with the remembrance of his frequent
sojourns at Niton when they were staying there, and his constant
visits to her house at Dallory Ham--had revived a faint idea that had
sometimes presented itself to her mind, namely, that he might be
growing attached to Ellen Adair. Mrs. Cumberland did not wish to
enlarge on this point; it might be, or it might not be; Captain Bohun
si! one knew; perhaps she was wholly mistaken; all she wished to say
was this--that if Captain Bohun _had_ no future thoughts in regard to
Miss Adair, she must request him to terminate his intimacy at once.
When she returned to Dallory Ham she should be glad to see him at her
house occasionally, just as any other visitor; but nothing more.
To this Arthur Bohun answered candidly enough. He did like Ellen
Adair; if circumstances permitted he should be only too glad to make
her his wife; but, as Mrs. Cumberland knew, he had hitherto been very
poor. As he pleased, Mrs. Cumberland remarked; the matter was entirely
for his own consideration; she did not attempt to press it, one way or
the other; if he saw no chance of his circumstances improving, he
should freely say so, and terminate his visits; she could not allow
Ellen to be played with. And upon that, Arthur begged to have the
night for reflection; he would see Mrs. Cumberland in the morning, and
give her his decision.
So it was left. When Ellen returned to the room--unsuspicious of what
had been said during her few minutes' absence from it--Captain Bohun
took his departure. Arrived at the hotel where he had put up, he
devoted himself to the consideration of the grave question, weighing
it in all its bearings as fairly as his love for Ellen allowed him to
do. Of course that biassed him.
He had sufficient to marry upon now. By the death of the relative for
whom he was in mourning, he had come into about eight hundred a-year.
With his own income, that made twelve. Quite sufficient to begin upon,
though he was a Bohun. But--there were deterring considerations. In
some way, as he suspected, his mother, in her fear of Ellen Adair, had
contrived to instil a suspicion in the mind of Sir Nash, that Arthur,
unless he were closely controlled, might be making a mésalliance. Sir
Nash possessed all the pride of the Bohuns, and it frightened him. He
spoke to Arthur, telling him that unless he married with the full
approval of his family, he should never succeed to the estates. No,
nor to the title if he could help it. If James died, he, Sir Nash,
would marry first, and leave direct heirs.
This, it was, that now interfered with Arthur's decision. One fact was
known to him--that James Bohun, since this illness set in, had joined
his father in cutting off the entail, so that the threat of leaving
the estates away from Arthur (even though he succeeded to the title)
could be easily accomplished. What was to be done? Part with Ellen
Adair he could not. Oh, if he might only make her his wife without the
world knowing it; the world abroad, and the world at home! _Might_
this be? Very slowly Arthur Bohun arrived at a conclusion--that the
only plan, if Mrs. Cumberland and Ellen would accede to it, was to
have a private marriage.
Arguments are so easy when inclination goes with them. The future
looks very much as we ourselves paint it. They might be married at
once, here at Eastsea. If James Bohun recovered and lived, why, there
could be no question about the title or the estates lapsing to Arthur,
and he might avow his marriage as soon as he pleased. If James died,
he should not, as he really believed, have to conceal it long, for he
thought Sir Nash's life quite as precarious as James's. A few months,
perhaps a few weeks, and he might be able to tell the world that Ellen
was his wife. He felt an inclination to whisper it beforehand to his
good friend and aunt, Miss Bohun. But, he must first of all ascertain
from Mrs. Cumberland what was the social standing of Mr. Adair. Unless
he were undeniably a gentleman, Ellen could be no fit wife for a
Bohun. Arthur, swayed by his love, had hitherto been content to take
this fact for granted; now he saw the necessity of ascertaining it
more certainly. It was not that he had any real doubt, but it was only
right to make sure.
Mr. Adair held some post under the British Government, formerly in
India, for a long time now in Australia. His wife had died young; his
only child, Ellen, had been sent to a first-rate school in England for
her education. Upon its completion, Mr. Adair had begged Mrs.
Cumberland to receive her; he had some thought of returning home
himself, so that he did not wish Ellen to go out to him. An impression
was afloat in Dallory that Ellen Adair would inherit a fortune; also
that Mrs. Cumberland received liberal remuneration for the expenses of
the young lady. These generalities Arthur Bohun already knew; but he
knew no more.
He paid the promised visit to Mrs. Cumberland in the morning. Ellen
was on the beach with the maid; there was no interruption, and their
conversation was long and confidential. Heaven alone knew how Arthur
Bohun succeeded in making Mrs. Cumberland believe in the necessity for
a private marriage. He did succeed. But he used no subterfuge. He
frankly told of the prejudice his mother had taken against Ellen
Adair, and that she had gained the ear of Sir Nash. In short, the same
arguments he had used to himself the previous evening, he urged now.
Mrs. Cumberland--naturally biassed against madam for the injury she
had striven to work upon Dr. Rane--thought it a frightful shame that
she should also strive to destroy the happiness and prospects of her
own son Arthur, and sympathized with him warmly. It was this feeling
that rendered her more easy than she would otherwise have been--in
short, that made her give her consent to Arthur's plan. To counteract
the bitter wrong contemplated by Mrs. North, she considered would be a
merit on Arthur's part, instead of a sin. And then, when things were
so far settled, and the speedy marriage determined on, Mrs. Cumberland
astonished Captain Bohun by putting Mr. Adair's letter into his hands,
explaining how it came to be received, and what she had written to
that gentleman to call it forth. "So that her father's blessing will
rest on the marriage," remarked Mrs. Cumberland; "but for that fact, I
could not have consented to a private one."
This gave Arthur the opportunity to ask about the position of Mr.
Adair, which, in the heat of argument, he had been forgetting.
Certainly he was a gentleman, Mrs. Cumberland answered, and of very
good Scotch family. Major Bohun, Mr. Adair, and her own husband,
George Cumberland, had been firm friends in India at the time of Major
Bohun's death. She could not help thinking, she added in conclusion,
that it was the remembrance of that early friendship which induced Mr.
Adair to give so ready and cordial a consent to his daughter's union
with Major Bohun's son.
And so there the matter ended, all couleur-de-rose; Arthur believing
that there could be no possible objection to his marrying Ellen Adair;
nay, that the way had been most markedly paved for it through this
letter of Mr. Adair's; Mrs. Cumberland deeming that she was not
indiscreet in permitting the marriage to be a private one. Both were
unsuspicious as the day. He, that there existed any real objection;
she, that Mr. Adair's consent applied to a very different man from
Arthur Bohun.
Captain Bohun went out from Mrs. Cumberland's in search of Ellen, with
the light of love flushing his cheeks. He found her in the same
sheltered spot, hedged in from the gaze of the world. Again alone. The
servant had gone to the shops, to buy ribbon. Their salutations
hitherto had been nothing but decorum and formality, as witness that
of the previous day.
"Good-morning," said Ellen, rising and holding out her hand.
Instead of taking it, he took herself. Took her in his arms with a cry
of long-repressed emotion, and laid her sweet face upon his breast,
kissing it with impassioned kisses. Ellen, utterly astonished, could
not escape.
"Do not shrink from me, Ellen. You are to be my wife."