DESOLATION.
At the front-parlour window at Eastsea, sat Ellen Adair--looking for
one who did not come. Whatever troubles, trials, mysteries might be
passing elsewhere, Eastsea was going through its usual monotonous
routine. How monotonous, Ellen Adair could have told: and yet, even
here, something like mystery seemed to be looming in the air.
"Come what may, Ellen, I shall be down again within a few hours," had
been Arthur Bohun's parting words to her. But the hours and the days
passed on, and he came not.
To have one's marriage suddenly interrupted, and the bridegroom borne
off from, as may be said, the very church-door, was not more agreeable
to Ellen Adair than it would be to any other young lady. She watched
him away in the fly, whilst his kisses were yet warm upon her lips.
All that remained, was to make the best of the situation. She took off
her bonnet and dress, and locked up the ring and licence he had begged
her to take care of. Until the morrow she supposed; only until the
morrow. Mrs. Cumberland sent out a message to her own flyman to the
effect that, finding herself unable to get up, she could not take her
drive, but he was to bring the fly at the same hour on the morrow.
Mrs. Cumberland also wrote a line to the clergyman.
The morrow came; and went. Ellen scarcely stirred from the window,
which commanded a view of the road from the station; but she did not
see Captain Bohun. "Sir Nash's son must be worse, and he cannot
leave," she said to herself, striving to account for the delay, whilst
at the same time a vague undercurrent of uneasiness lay within her,
which she did her best not to recognize or listen to. "There will be a
letter tomorrow morning--or he himself will come."
But on the morrow there was no letter. Ellen watched the postman pass
the house, and she turned sick and white. Mrs. Cumberland--who was
better and had risen early, expecting Captain Bohun, and that the
marriage would certainly take place that day--took the absence of
letters with philosophy.
"He might as well have written a line, of course, Ellen; but it only
shows that he is coming in by the first train. That will be due in
twenty minutes."
Ellen stood at the window, watching: her spirit faint, her heart
beating. That vague undercurrent of uneasiness had grown into a
recognized fear now--but a fear she knew not of what. She made no
pretence to eating any breakfast; she could not have swallowed a
morsel had it been to save her life: Mrs. Cumberland said nothing,
except that she must take some after Captain Bohun had arrived.
"There's the train, Ellen. I hear the whistle."
Ellen sat behind the Venetian blind at the window, glancing through
it. Three or four straggling passengers were at length perceived,
making their way down the street. But not one of them was Captain
Bohun. The disappointment was turning her heart to sickness, when a
station fly came careering gaily up the street.
Ah, how hope rose again! She might have known he would take a fly, and
not _walk_ up. The driver seemed making for their house. Ellen's eyes
grew bright; her pale cheeks changed to rose-colour.
"Is that fly coming here, my dear?"
"I think so, Mrs. Cumberland."
"Then it is Captain Bohun. We must let the clergyman know at once,
Ellen."
The fly stopped at their house, and Ellen turned away; she would not
seem to be looking for him, though he was so soon to be her husband.
But--something was shrilly called out from the inside; upon which the
driver started on again, and pulled up at the next door. A lady and
child got out. It was _not_ Captain Bohun.
I wonder whether disappointment so great ever fell on woman? Great
emotions, whether of joy or sorrow, are always silent. The heart alone
knoweth its own bitterness, says the wise King, and a stranger may not
intermeddle with its joy. Ellen laid her hands for a minute or two on
her bosom; but she never spoke.
"He will be here by the next train," said Mrs. Cumberland. "He _must_
come, you know, Ellen."
She watched through the livelong day. How its hours dragged themselves
along she knew not. Imagination pictured all sorts of probabilities
that might bring him at any moment. He might post down: he might have
alighted by mistake at the wrong station, and walk on: he might have
arrived by the last train, and be changing his dress at the hotel
after travelling. Five hundred ideas, alternating with despair,
presented themselves to her. And thus the weary day went on. Towards
night the same delusive hope of the morning again rose; the same
farce, of the possible arrival of Captain Bohun, was gone through.
It was almost dark: for Ellen, watching ever, had not thought about
lights; and Mrs. Cumberland, tired with her long day, had gone into
the small back dining-room to lie undisturbed on the sofa. The last
train for the night was steaming in: Ellen heard the whistle. If it
did not bring Captain Bohun she thought she could only give him up for
ever.
A short interval of suspense; and then--surely he was coming! A fly or
two came rattling through the street from the station: and one of
them--yes--one of them drew up at the door. Ellen, thinking she had
learnt wisdom, said to herself that she would not get up any undue
expectation in regard to this. Foolish girl! when her whole heart was
throbbing and beating.
One of the house servants had gone out, and was opening the fly door.
A gentleman's hand threw out a light overcoat; a gentleman himself
leaped out after it, and turned to get something from the seat. Tall
and slender, Ellen thought it was Captain Bohun: the light coat was
exactly like his.
And the terrible suspense was over! She should now know what the
mystery had been. He had written most likely, and the letter had
miscarried: how stupid she was not to have thought of that before! She
heard his footsteps in the passage: in another instant she should be
in his arms, feel his kisses on her lips. It was a moment's delirium
of happiness: neither more nor less. Ellen stood gazing at the door,
her colour coming and going, her nervous hands clasped one within the
other.
But the footsteps passed the sitting-room. There seemed to be some
talking, and then the house subsided into silence. Where was he?
Whither had he gone? Not into the dining-room, as Ellen knew, for Mrs.
Cumberland might not be awakened. Gradually the idea came creeping in,
and then bounded onwards with a flash that, after all, it might not
have been Captain Bohun. A faint cry of despair escaped her, and she
put her hands up as if to ward off some approaching evil.
But the suspense at least must be put an end to; it was too great to
bear; and she rang the bell. Ann, who chiefly waited on them, answered
it.
"For lights, Miss Ellen?"
"Yes. Who has just come here in a fly?"
"It's the landlady's son, miss. A fine, handsome man as ever was
seen!"
When Mrs. Cumberland entered, Ellen sat, pale and quiet, on the low
chair. In truth the inward burden was becoming hard to bear. Mrs.
Cumberland remarked that Captain Bohun had neither come nor written,
and she thought it was not good behaviour on his part. And, with that,
she settled to her evening newspaper.
"Why, Ellen! Here's the death of James Bohun," she presently
exclaimed. "He died the day after Arthur left us. This accounts for
the delay, I suppose."
"Yes," murmured Ellen.
"But not for his not writing," resumed Mrs. Cumberland. "That is very
strange. I hope," she added, smiling, "that he does not intend to give
you up because he is now heir-presumptive to a baronetcy."
Mrs. Cumberland, as she spoke, happened to look at Ellen, and was
struck by her expression. Her face was pale as death; her eyes had a
sort of wild fear, the lips trembled.
"My dear child, you surely did not take what I said in earnest! I
spoke in jest. Captain Bohun is not a man to behave dishonourably; you
may quite rely upon that. Had he come into a dukedom, you would still
be made his duchess."
"I think I will go to bed, if you don't mind my leaving you," said
Ellen, faintly. "My head aches."
"I think you had better, then. But you have tormented yourself into
that headache, Ellen."
To bed! It was a mere figure of speech. Ellen sat up in her room,
knowing that neither bed nor sleep could bring her ease--for her
dreams the past two nights had been worse than reality. She watched
for hours the tossing sea; it had never properly calmed down since the
storm.
The morning brought a letter from Captain Bohun. To Mrs. Cumberland;
not to Ellen. Or, rather a note, for it was not long enough to be
called a letter. It stated that urgent circumstances had prevented his
returning to Eastsea--and he would write further shortly. He added
that he was very unwell, and begged to be remembered to Miss Adair.
To Miss Adair! The very formality of the message told its tale.
Something was wrong: it was evident even to Mrs. Cumberland. The
letter was short, constrained, abrupt; and she turned it about in
haughty wonder.
"What can the man mean? _This_ is not the way to write when things are
at their present crisis. Here the ring and licence are waiting; here
the clergyman is holding himself in readiness from day to day; here
you are fretting your heart out, Ellen, and he writes such a note as
this! But for being his own handwriting, I know what I should think."
"What?" asked Ellen, hastily.
"Why, that he is worse than he says. Delirious. Out of his senses."
"No, no; it is not that."
"I think if it is not, it ought to he," sharply retorted Mrs.
Cumberland. "We must wait for his next letter, I suppose; there is
nothing else to be done."
And they waited. And the weary days dragged their slow length along.
Any position more cruelly difficult than that of Captain Bohun cannot
well be conceived. Madam's communication was not confined to the one
first revelation; she added another to it. At first there had been no
opportunity for more; the train stopped at a branch station just
beyond Eastsea, and the carriage became filled with passengers.
Arthur, in his torment, would have further questioned his mother,
praying for elucidation; but madam demanded in a whisper whether he
was mad, and then turned her back upon him. The people went all the
way to London, but as soon as Arthur had handed his mother into a cab,
on their way to Sir Nash Bohun's, he began again. The storm that raged
at Eastsea had apparently extended its fury to London; the rain beat,
the wind blew, the streets were as deserted as London streets at a
busy hour of the afternoon can be. Arthur shuddered a little as he
glanced out; the elements just now seemed as dark and warring as his
fate.
"Mother, things cannot rest here," he said. "You evaded my questions
in the train; you must answer them now. Cannot you see how dreadful
this suspense must be to me? I am engaged to marry Ellen Adair: if not
to-day, some other day. And now you tell me that, which--which----"
Which ought to break it off, he was about to say: but emotion stopped
him. He raised his hand and wiped the moisture from his forehead.
Madam bent down, and kissed his hand. He did not remember to have been
kissed by her since he was a child. Her voice assumed a soft, tender
tone; something like tears stood in her eyes.
"I can see how you suffer, Arthur; I am sure you must love her, poor
young lady; and I would give anything not to have to inflict pain or
disappointment on you. But what else can I do? You are my son: your
interests are dear to me: and I must speak. Don't you remember how I
have always warned you against Miss Adair? But I never suspected there
would be cause for it so great as this."
He did remember it. This new soft mode of madam's became her well. In
the midst of his own trouble Arthur spared a moment to think that
perhaps he had in a degree misjudged her.
"I cannot understand how so frightful a charge can be brought against
Mr. Adair," spoke Arthur. "What you tell me sounds like a fable. I had
been given to understand that he and my father were close friends."
"As they were, once."
"And yet you say that he, Mr. Adair, was a--a----"
"A convict," spoke madam, supplying the words. "I cannot give you
details, Arthur: only facts. He was tried, out there, and convicted.
He obtained a ticket-of-leave--which I dare say may not have expired
yet."
"And his crime?--What was it?"
"I told you. Forgery."
"Did _you_ ever know him?"
"Of course I did: at the time when he was intimate with your father.
We never quite knew who he was, Arthur; or who his people were at
home, or what had taken him originally to India; but Major Bohun was
unsuspicious as the day, as you yourself. There arose great trouble,
Arthur; gambling and wickedness, and I can't tell you what: and
through it all, nearly up to the last, your father believed in Adair."
"Was he a convict _then?_"
"No, no; all that came afterwards: not the crime, perhaps, but
discovery, trial, and conviction. Arthur--how sorry I am to say it, I
can never tell you--your father's son had better go and marry that
miserable drab, than a daughter of William Adair."
She pointed to a poor wretch that was passing. A gaunt skeleton of a
woman, with paint on her hollow cheeks, and a tawdry gown trailing in
the mud.
Arthur pressed his hands to his temples; all sorts of confused
thoughts were fighting together within his breast.
"Did Mrs. Cumberland know of this?" he asked.
"I cannot say. _Her husband did_. At the time it all happened, Mrs.
Cumberland was away in ill-health. I should think she would hear it
from her husband afterwards."
"Then--how could she encourage me to enter into this contract with
Miss Adair?" returned Arthur, in a flash of resentment.
"You must never see her again, Arthur; you must never see her again.
Go abroad for a time if need be: it may be the better plan."
"What am I to say to them?" he cried in self-commune. "After all,
Ellen is not responsible for her father's sins."
A spasm caught madam. Was this information not sufficient?--would he
carry out the marriage yet?
"Arthur, there's worse behind," she breathed. "Why can't you be
satisfied?--why do you force me to tell you all?--I would have spared
you the rest."
"What rest?" he asked, his lips turning white.
"About that man--William Adair."
"What rest?"
"He killed your father."
"Killed--my father?"
"Yes. He forged his name; he ruined him: and in the shock--in the
shock--he----"
Madam stopped. "What?" gasped Arthur.
"Well, the shock killed your father."
"Do you mean that he died of it?"
"He could not bear the trouble; and he--shot himself."
Madam's face was white now: white with emotion. Arthur, in _his_
emotion, seized her hand, and gazed at her.
"It is true," she whispered. "He shot himself in the trouble and
disgrace that Adair brought upon him. And you, his son, would have
married the man's daughter!"
With a horrible fear of what he had all but done--with a remorse that
nearly turned him mad--with a sort of unformed vow never again to see
Mrs. Cumberland or Ellen Adair, Arthur Bohun dropped his mother's hand
with a suppressed groan, and kept silence until they stopped before
the house of Sir Nash Bohun.
Mechanically he looked up at the windows, and saw that the shutters
were open. So James was not dead. Arthur gave his hand to madam, to
help her in.
But James Bohun was as ill as he could be: very palpably nearer death
than when madam had started from the house at break of dawn. In fact
there had then been some hope, for he had rallied in the night. Arthur
never knew that. He supposed his mother had really come off to fetch
him, in order that he should be present at the close: he suspected not
that she had frantically hastened down to disturb him in his paradise.
And this was Arthur Bohun's present position. It is not possible, as
was just remarked, to imagine one more cruelly difficult. Bound by
every tie of honour to Ellen Adair, only not married to her through a
mere chance, she waiting for him now--each hour as it passed--to
return and complete the ceremony; and loving her as he should never
love any other in this world. And--in the very midst of these
obligations--to have made the sudden and astounding discovery that
Ellen Adair was the only woman living who must be barred to him; whom,
of all others, of all the numbers that walked the earth, he must alone
not make his wife. The position would have been bewildering to a man
without honour; to Arthur Bohun, with his fastidiously high standard,
it was simply terrible.
For the few hours that James Bohun lasted, Arthur did nothing. It may
almost be said that he _thought_ nothing, for his mind was in a chaos.
On the day following his arrival James died: and he, Arthur, had then
become heir-presumptive. To many, it might have seemed that he was
quite as secure of the succession as though he were heir-apparent; for
Sir Nash was old and ailing. A twelvemonth ago Sir Nash Bohun had been
full of life; upright, energetic, to all appearance strong, hearty,
and likely to outlive his son. But since then he had changed rapidly;
and the once healthy man seemed to have little health in him now.
Medical men told him that if he would go abroad and for some months
take certain medicinal springs, he might--and in all probability
would--regain health and strength. Sir Nash would have tried it but
for the declining health of his son. James could not leave home; Sir
Nash would not be separated from him.
What though Arthur Bohun was the heir? In his present misery, it
seemed worse than a mockery to him. A Bohun could not live
dishonoured: and he must be dishonoured to the end of his days. To
abandon Ellen Adair would bring the red stain of undying shame to his
cheek; to marry her would be, of the two, only the greater disgrace.
What, then, could anticipated rank and wealth be to him?--better that
he should depart for some far-off land and become an exile for ever.
He knew not what to do; even at this passing moment, he knew it not.
What ought he to do? Torn with conflicting emotion, he could not see
where lay his duty in this very present dilemma. What was he to say to
Ellen?--what to Mrs. Cumberland? Where seek an excuse for his conduct?
They were expecting him, no doubt, by every train, and he did not go
to them. He did not mean to go. What could he write?--what say? On the
day of James Bohun's death, he took pen in hand and sat down: but he
never wrote a word. The true reason he could not urge. He could not
say to Ellen, Your father was a convict; he caused my father's death;
and so our union must not take place. That Ellen knew nothing of any
disgrace attaching to her father was as clear as day. "I tell you
these dreadful truths in confidence," madam had said to Arthur, "you
must not repeat them. You might be called upon to prove them--and
proof would be very difficult to obtain at this distance of time. The
Reverend George Cumberland knew all, even more than I; but he is dead:
and it may be that Mrs. Cumberland knows nothing. I should almost
think she does not: or she would never have wished to marry you to
Adair's daughter. You can only be silent, Arthur; you must be so, for
the poor girl's sake. By giving a mere hint as to what her father was,
you would blight her prospects for life. Let her have her fair chance:
though she may not marry you, she may be chosen by someone else: do
nothing to hinder it. If the story ever comes out through others,
why--you will be thankful, I dare say, that at least it was not
through you."
He sat with the pen in his hand, and did not write a word. No word or
phrase in the whole English language would have served him. "My
darling, Fate has parted us, but I would a great deal rather die than
have to write it, and I shall hold you in my heart for ever."
Something like that he would have said, had it been practicable. But
he had no longer to deal with romance, but with stern reality.
He put ink and pens away for the day, and lay back in his chair with a
face almost as white as that of his dead cousin; and almost felt as
though he were dying himself. Man has rarely gone through a keener
mental conflict than this. He saw no way out of his dilemma; no
possible means of escape.
On the third day he spoke to Sir Nash. It was not that a suspicion of
his mother's veracity crossed his mind: it did not do so: for she had
betrayed too much agitation to permit him to doubt the genuineness of
her revelation. Therefore, he spoke not to hear the tale confirmed,
but in the fulness of his stricken heart.
They were alone in the library. Sir Nash began talking of different
things; of Arthur's probable succession; of his lost son. James, never
strong, had worn himself out between philanthropy and close reading,
he said. Arthur, he hoped, would take a lesson, embrace rational
pursuits, and marry. He, Sir Nash, understood there was a charming
young lady waiting to be asked by him; a young lady of family and
fortune, possessing everything in her favour: he alluded to Miss
Dallory.
"Did you know anything of the cause of my father's death, sir?"
questioned Arthur, who had stood listening, in silence, his elbow on
the mantelpiece, his hand supporting his brow.
"Do _you_ know?" returned Sir Nash, glancing keenly at Arthur.
"I always understood that he died of sunstroke. But my mother has at
length disclosed the truth to me. He--died in a different way."
"He shot himself," said Sir Nash, in hushed tones. "My brother was
suddenly overwhelmed with trouble, and--he was unable to face it. Poor
Tom!"
Arthur asked for some of the particulars: he was anxious to hear them.
But Sir Nash could not tell him a syllable more than he already knew:
in fact, the baronet seemed very hazy about it altogether.
"Of course I never learned the details as clearly as if I had been on
the spot, Arthur," he said, "Your poor father fell into the meshes of
a scoundrel, one Adair, who had somehow forged his way by false
pretences into society--which I suppose is not difficult to manage,
out there. And this Adair brought some disgrace on him from which
there was no escape: and--and Tom, poor fellow, could not survive it.
He was honour and integrity itself, believing all men to be as upright
as he, until he found them otherwise. If he had a failing, it was on
the side of pride--but I'm afraid most of us Bohuns have too much of
that. A less proud man might have got over it. Tom could not. He died,
rather than live with dishonoured name."
Arthur Bohun, standing there and looking more like a ghost than a
living man, thought of the blow his own honour had just received--the
slur that would rest on it for ever.
"And you know nothing of the details, uncle?" he resumed. "I wonder
you did not stir in it at the time--bring Adair to justice."
"On the contrary, we hushed it up. We have never spoken of it,
Arthur. Tom was gone; and it was as well to let it die out. It took
place in some out-of-the-way district of India; and the real truth
was not known to half-a-dozen people. The report there was that
Major Bohun had died of sunstroke; it spread to Europe, and we
let it go uncontradicted. Better, we thought, for Tom's little
son--you,--Arthur--that the real facts should be allowed to rest, if
rest they would."
There ensued a pause. Presently Arthur lifted his face; and spoke, as
Sir Nash supposed, in derision. In truth, it was in desperation.
"It would not do, I suppose, for a gentleman to marry Adair's
daughter?"
Sir Nash turned quickly. "Why do you ask this? I have heard that you
know the girl."
"I will tell you, sir. No one could have been nearer marriage than I
was with Ellen Adair. Of course it is all at an end: I cannot do it
now."
Sir Nash Bohun stared for a moment, as if unable to take in the
wildness of the words. He then drew up his fine old head with dignity.
"Arthur Bohun! a gentleman had rather do as your poor father
did--shoot himself--than marry Ellen Adair."
And Arthur Bohun in his misery, wondered whether he had _not_ better
do it, rather than live the life that remained to him now.