AN INTERRUPTION.
The tide came rippling up on the sea-shore with a monotonous, soothing
murmur. There were no waves to-day; the air was densely still; but in
the western sky little black clouds were rising, no bigger yet than a
man's hand; and as the weatherwise old fishermen glanced to the spot,
they foretold a storm.
Two people, pacing the beach side by side, regarded neither the sea
nor the threatened storm. Need you be told that they were Arthur Bohun
and Ellen Adair. What were the winds and the waves to them in their
happiness? Amidst the misery that was soon to set in for both, the
recollection of this short time spent at Eastsea, these few weeks
since their love had been declared, and their marriage was
approaching, would seem as an impossible dream.
The private marriage, consented to by Mrs. Cumberland, must not be
confounded with a secret marriage. It was to be kept from the world in
general: but not from every friend they possessed. Mrs. Cumberland
intended to be present as Ellen's guardian; and she very much urged
that some friend of Arthur's should also attend. He acquiesced, and
fixed on Richard North. Captain Bohun purposed to tell his aunt, Miss
Bohun, his friend in every way: but not until the wedding was over: he
would trust no one beforehand, he said, excepting Mrs. Cumberland and
Dick. Even Dick he did not trust yet. He commanded Dick's presence at
Eastsea, telling him that his coming was imperative: there must be no
refusal. Finding Dick did not respond, Arthur wrote again; but still
only mysteriously. The first letter was the one put aside by Miss
Matilda North, the second was that opened by madam.
But there were moments when, in spite of his happiness, Arthur Bohun
had qualms of conscience for his precipitation: more especially did
they press upon him immediately after the marriage was decided upon.
For, after all, he really knew nothing, or as good as nothing, of Mr.
Adair's position: and the proud Bohun blood bubbled up a little, as a
thought crossed him that it was just possible he might find too late
that, in point of family, hers was not fitting to have mated with his.
The human heart is treacherous: given over to self-deception, and to
sophistry. So long as a thing is coveted, when it seems almost
unattainable, we see nothing but the advantages of gaining it, the
happiness it must bring. But, let this desire be attained, and lo! we
veer round, and repent our haste. Instantly every argument that could
bear against it, true or false, rises up within us with mocking force,
and we say, Oh that I had waited before doing this thing! It is that
deceitful heart of ours that is in fault, nothing else; placing upon
all things its own false colouring.
At first, as they sat together under cover of the rocks, or on the
more open benches on the sands, or wandered to the inland walks and
the rural lanes, his conversation would turn on Mr. Adair. But Ellen
seemed to know as little of her father as he did.
"It is strange you don't remember more of him, Ellen!" he suddenly
said on one occasion when he was alone with her at Mrs. Cumberland's.
"Strange! Do you think so?" returned Ellen, turning from the bay
window where she was standing. "I was sent to Europe at eight years
old, and children at that age so soon forget. I seem to recollect a
gentleman in some sort of white coat, who cried over me and kissed me,
and said mamma was gone to live in heaven. His face was a pleasant
one, and he had bright hair; something the colour of yours."
She thought Arthur had alluded to personal appearance. But he had not
meant that.
"I remember another thing--that papa used to say I was just like my
mother, and should grow up like her," resumed Ellen. "It seems ages
ago. Perhaps when I see him I shall find that my memory has given me
an ideal father, and that he is quite different from what I have
pictured him."
"You know none of your Scotch relatives, Ellen?"
"None."
"Or where they live?"
"No."
"Why does not Mr. Adair come home?"
"I don't know. He has been thinking of it for some years; and that's
why I am with Mrs. Cumberland instead of going out to him again. I am
sure he must have a very high opinion of Mrs. Cumberland," added
Ellen, after a pause. "His letters prove it. And he often mentions her
late husband as his dear friend and chaplain. I will show you some of
his letters, if you like. Would you care to see them? I keep all
papa's letters."
Arthur Bohun's face lighted up at the proposition. "Yes," he said with
animation. "Yes. As many as you please."
She crossed the room to her desk, took out three or four letters
indiscriminately from a bundle lying there, and brought them to him.
He detained the pretty hands as well as the letters, and took some
impassioned kisses from the blushing face, turned up unconsciously to
his. Sweeter kisses than Arthur Bohun would ever impress upon any
other face in afterlife. Ellen had almost learned not to shrink from
them in her maiden modesty; he vowed to her that they were now his
best right and privilege.
But the letters told him nothing. They were evidently a gentleman's
letters; but of the writer's position or family they said not a word.
Arthur returned them with a half-sigh: it was of no use, he thought,
to trouble himself any more about the matter. After all, his own
father and Mr. Adair had been close friends in India, and that was a
sort of guarantee that all must be right. This decided, he delivered
himself up to his ideal happiness: and the wedding day was finally
settled.
This afternoon, when they were pacing the beach, unobservant of the
little clouds rising in the west, was the marriage eve. It is the last
day they need thus walk together as mere formal acquaintances: for at
that little church whose spire is not a stone's-throw away, they will
tomorrow be made man and wife. A strange light sits on Arthur Bohun's
cheek; the light of intense happiness. The day and the hour are
drawing near to its realization: and not so much as a thought has
crossed his mind that any untoward fate can arise to mar it.
Ah, might not those dark clouds have read him a lesson? Just as the
small circlets out there might gather into an overwhelming storm,
before which both man and beast must bow their heads, so might be
rising, even then, some threatening wave in the drama of his life. And
it was so: though he suspected it not. Even now, as they walked, the
clouds were increasing! just as the unseen thunderstorm was about to
descend upon their lives and hearts. Suddenly, in turning to face the
west, Arthur noticed the altered aspect of the sky.
"Look at those clouds, getting up! I hope the weather's not going to
change for us tomorrow, Ellen. What does that mean?" he asked of a
man who was doing something to his small boat, now high and dry upon
the beach.
The sailor glanced up indifferently.
"It means a storm, master."
"Shall we get it here, do you think?"
"Ay, sir. Not till tomorrow, maybe. I fancy we shall, though"--giving
a look round, as if he could see the storm in the air. "I knowed there
was going to be a change."
"How did you know it?"
"Us fishermen sees a storm afore it comes, master. My foot tells it me
besides. I got him jammed once, and he have had the weather in him
ever since."
They walked on. "That will be two untoward events for us," remarked
Captain Bohun; but he spoke with a smile, as if no untoward events
could mar their happiness. "We want a third to complete it, don't we,
Ellen?"
"What are the two?"
"The bad weather threatened for tomorrow; and Dick's non-arrival is
the other. I am vexed at that."
For, on this same morning, Mrs. Cumberland had received a letter from
her son. Amidst other items of news, Dr. Rane mentioned that Richard
North was absent: it was supposed in Belgium, but no one knew
positively where. This explained Richard's silence to Captain Bohun,
and put an end to the hope that Richard would be at the wedding. Dr.
Rane also stated another thing, which was anything but pleasant news:
that beyond all doubt fever was breaking out at Dallory, though it was
not yet publicly known. The doctor added that he feared it would prove
of a malignant type, and he felt glad that his mother was away. Bessy
was well, and sent her love.
"Will you rest a little before going in?"
They were passing the favourite old seat under the rocks. Ellen
acquiesced, and they sat down. The black clouds grew larger and
higher: but, absorbed in their own plans, their own happiness, had the
heavens become altogether overshadowed it would have been as nothing
to them. In low tones they conversed together of the future; beginning
with the morrow, ending they knew not where. Their visions were of the
sweetest rose-colour; they fully believed that bliss so great as their
own had never been found on earth. His arm was round Ellen as they
sat, her hand lay in his, her head seemed resting against his heart.
To all intents and purposes they seemed as entirely alone in this
sheltered nook as they could have been in the wilds of the desert. The
beach was shingly; footsteps could not approach without being heard:
had any one passed, they would have been seen sitting as decorously
apart as though they had quarrelled: but the shore seemed deserted
this afternoon.
The arrangement for the marriage was as follows:--At half-past eleven
o'clock, Arthur, Ellen, and Mrs. Cumberland would enter the little
church by a private door, and the ceremony would take place. Richard
North was to have given her away, but that was over now. Arthur held
the licence; he had made a friend of the clergyman, and all would be
done quietly. He and Ellen were to go away for a few days; she would
then return home with Mrs. Cumberland, and be to the world still as
Miss Adair. After that, Arthur would take his own time, and be guided
by circumstances for declaring the marriage: but he meant, if
possible, to at once introduce Ellen to his aunt, Miss Bohun.
And Ellen Adair? Not a scruple rested on her mind, not a doubt
or hesitation on her heart; her father had given his cordial
approbation--as expressed in the letter to Mrs. Cumberland--and she
was full of peace.
"Did you feel that, Ellen?"
A faint, quivering breeze had seemed to pass over them with sudden
sharpness, and to die away in a moan.
Some white sails out at sea flapped a little, and the boats turned
homewards.
"We had better be going, too, my love; or we may have it upon us."
She rose as he spoke, and they walked away. The sky was growing
darker; the shades of evening were beginning to gather. Mrs.
Cumberland had been lying down and was dressing, the maid said--if
Captain Bohun would wait. Ellen took off her bonnet and mantle.
"Whilst we are alone, let me see that I have not made a mistake in the
size, Ellen."
Taking from his pocket a bit of tissue-paper, he unfolded it and
disclosed a wedding-ring. Ellen blushed vividly as he tried it on.
"I--thought," she timidly began, "that you meant this to be my
wedding-ring"--indicating the plain gold one she habitually wore on
her right hand.
"No. Rane bought that one. This will be mine."
It fitted exactly. Captain Bohun had not allowed for the probability
of those fragile fingers growing larger with years. As he held it on
for a minute, their eyes met. Ellen suddenly recalled that long-past
day in Dallory Church, when she had taken off Maria Warne's ring for
Bessy North, the after-scene in the carriage, when Arthur Bohun put
the other one on, and his sweet words: lastly, the scene in the garden
when he put it on again. This was time the third.
"If this should ever become too small for me?" she murmured, as he
took it off the finger.
"Oh, but that--if ever--won't be for ages and ages."
Not for ages, and ages! If, in their innocent unconsciousness, they
could only have seen the cruel Fate that was already coiling its
meshes around them!
The storm did not come that night. But whether, in revenge for the
delay, it chose to expend itself with double violence, certain it was
that such a storm had seldom been seen at Eastsea as raged in the
morning. The sky was lurid and angry; the sea tossed itself in great
waves; the wind whistled and shrieked; the rain dashed furiously down
at intervals: all nature seemed at warfare.
In much distress lay Mrs. Cumberland. Exceedingly subject of late to
outer influences, whether it might be the storm that affected her, she
knew not, but she felt unable to rise from her bed. The hour for the
marriage was drawing on. It had been fixed for half-past eleven. The
clergyman had a funeral at half-past ten; and Mrs. Cumberland had said
that she herself could not be ready before that time. At a little
after eleven Arthur Bohun came up in the fly that was to convey them
to church. Mrs. Cumberland sent to ask him to go upstairs to her; and
he found her in tears. A curious eight in so self-contained a woman.
"I cannot help it, Captain Bohun: indeed I cannot. Had not the
marriage better be put off for a day? I may be better tomorrow."
"Certainly not," he answered. "Why should it be put off? I am very
sorry for Ellen's sake; she would have felt happier had you been in
church. But your presence is not essential to the ceremony, Mrs.
Cumberland."
"Her father and mother were my dear friends. It seems as though I
should fail in my duty if I were to allow her to go to church without
me."
Arthur Bohun laughed. He would not listen to a word--was it likely
that he would do so? In less than an hour's time all responsibility in
regard to Ellen would be transferred to himself, he answered, for he
should be her husband.
"The marriage will be perfectly legal, dear Mrs. Cumberland, though
you do not witness it," were his last words as he went downstairs.
Ellen was ready. She wore an ordinary silk dress of light quiet
colour, and a plain white bonnet: such as she might have walked out in
at Eastsea. There was nothing, save her pale face and quivering lips,
to denote that she was a bride. To have to go to church alone was very
unpalatable to her, and she could with difficulty suppress her tears.
"My dearest love, I am more grieved at it for your sake than you can
be," he whispered. "Take a little courage, Ellen; it will soon be
over. Once you are my wife, I will strive to shelter you from all
vexation."
But this illness of Mrs. Cumberland's made a slight alteration in the
programme. For Arthur Bohun to go out with Mrs. Cumberland and Ellen
in a fly, was nothing; he sometimes accompanied them in their drives:
but to go out alone with Ellen, and in that storm, would have excited
the curiosity of Ann and the other servants. Arthur Bohun rapidly
decided to walk to church, braving the rain: Ellen must follow in the
fly. There was no time to be lost. It was twenty minutes past eleven.
"Shall I put you in the carriage first, Ellen?" he stayed to ask.
"No. I think you had better not."
"My darling, you _will come?_"
Did a doubt cross him, that he should say this? But she answered that
she would: he saw she spoke sincerely. He wrung her hand and went out
to the door.
Had the fly multiplied itself into two flies?--and were they
squabbling for precedence? Certainly two were there: and the one wet
driver was abusing the other wet driver for holding his place before
the door, and not allowing him to draw up to it.
"Arthur! Good Heavens, how fortunate I am! Arthur Bohun! don't you see
me?"
Every drop of blood in Arthur Bohun's veins seemed to stand still and
turn to ice as he recognized his mother's voice and his mother's face.
Madam, driven hastily from the railway-station, had come to bear him
off bodily. That his wedding was over for that day, instinct at once
told him: she would have gone to church and forbidden the banns. He
stepped to the fly door.
In afterlife, he could never clearly recall these next few minutes.
Madam spoke of the telegram that had been received at Dallory. She
said--giving to matters her own colouring--that James Bohun was in
extremity; that he only waited to see Arthur to die; that he was
asking for him: not a moment was to be lost. She had hastened to
London on receipt of the telegram, and had now come down to fetch him.
"Step in, Arthur. We must catch the quarter-to-twelve train."
"I--I cannot go," he answered.
"Not go!" screamed madam. "But I command you to go. Would you disobey
the last wishes of a dying man?"
Well, no; he felt that he could not do that. "A quarter to twelve?" he
said rather dreamily. "You must wait, madam, whilst I speak to Mrs.
Cumberland. There's plenty of time."
He went in with his tale, and up to Mrs. Cumberland, as one in a
dream. He was forced to go, he bewailed, but not for more than a day,
when he should be back to complete the marriage. What could she
answer? In her bewilderment, she scarcely understood what had
happened. Leaping downstairs again, he closed the door of the
sitting-room upon himself and Ellen, and clasped her to his heart.
"My darling! But for this, you would have been on your way to become
my wife. Come what may, Ellen, I shall be down again within a few
hours. God bless you, my love! Take care of these."
They were the ring and licence; he handed them to her lest he might
lose them. Before Ellen could recover herself, whilst yet her face was
glowing with his farewell kisses, he was being rattled away in the fly
with madam to the station.
Crafty madam! Waiting in the fly at the door and making her
observations, she had read what the signs meant almost as surely as
though she had been told. The other fly waiting, and Ellen dressed;
going out in it on that stormy day; Arthur out of mourning, his attire
covered with a light overcoat. She guessed the truth (aided by the
mysterious hint in the letter she had opened) and believed surely
that nothing less than a MARRIAGE had she interrupted. Not a word said
she on the way to the station. Getting him away was a great victory:
it would not do to risk marring it. But when they were in the train,
and the whistle had sounded, and they were fairly off, then madam
spoke. They had the compartment to themselves.
"Arthur, you cannot deceive me: any attempt to do so would be useless.
You were about to marry Ellen Adair."
She spoke quietly, almost affectionately; when the bosom is beating
with a horrible dread, it produces calmness of manner rather than
passion. For a single moment there wavered in Arthur Bohun's mind a
doubt as to whether it should be avowal or evasion, but not for
longer. As it had come to this, why he must take his standing, He
raised his head proudly.
"Eight, mother. I am going to wed Ellen Adair."
Madam's pulses began to beat nineteen to the dozen. Her head grew hot,
her hands cold.
"You _were_, you mean, Arthur."
"Yes. Put it as you like. What was interrupted to-day, will be
concluded tomorrow. As soon as I have seen James, I shall return to
Eastsea."
"Arthur! Arthur Bohun! It must never be concluded, Never."
"Pardon me, mother. I am my own master."
"A Bohun may not wed shame and disgrace."
"Shame and disgrace cannot attach to _her_. Madam, I must beg you to
remember that in a few hours that young lady will be my wife. Do not
try my temper too sorely."
"No, not to her, but to her father," panted madam--and Arthur felt
frightened, he knew not why, at her strong emotion. "Would you wed the
daughter of a--a----"
Madam paused. Arthur looked at her; his compressed lips trembled just
a little.
"Of a what, mother? Pray go on."
"Of everything that is bad. A forger. A convict."
There was a dead pause. Nothing to be heard but the whirling train.
"A--what?" gasped Captain Bohun, when he could get back his breath.
"A CONVICT," burst forth madam in a scream; for her agitation was
becoming irrepressible. "Why do you make me repeat painful things?"
"Mother! Of whom do you speak?"
"Of her father: William Adair."
He fell back in the carriage as one who is shot. As one from whom life
and all that can make it sweet, had suddenly gone out for ever.