UNDER THE SAME ROOF.
A crafty and worldly-wise woman, like Mrs. North, can change her
tactics as readily as the wind changes its quarters. The avowal of
Richard, that he was the master of Dallory Hall, so far as holding all
power went--had been the greatest blow to her of any she had
experienced in all these later years. It signed, as she perceived, the
death-warrant of her own power; for she knew that she should never be
allowed to rule again with an unjust and iron hand, as it had been her
cruel pleasure to do. In all essential things, where it was needful to
interfere, she felt that Richard's will and Richard's policy would
henceforth outweigh her own.
Madam sat in her dressing-room that night, mentally looking into the
future. It was very dim and misty. The sources whence she had drawn
her exorbitant supplies were gone; her power was gone. Would it be
worth while to remain at the Hall, she questioned, under the altered
circumstances. Since the death of James Bohun, and her short sojourn
with Sir Nash, an idea had occasionally crossed her mind that it might
be desirable to take up her residence with the baronet--if she could
only accomplish it. From some cause or other she had formerly not felt
at ease when with Sir Nash; but that was wearing off. At any rate, a
home in his well-appointed establishment would be far preferable to
Dallory if its show and luxury could not be kept up; and all
considerations gave way before madam's own selfish interest.
Already madam tasted of deposed power. Ellen Adair was to remain at
the Hall, and--as Richard had emphatically enjoined--was to be made
welcome. Madam gnashed her teeth as she thought of it. Ellen Adair,
whom she so hated and dreaded! She lost herself in a speculation of
what Richard might have done had she persisted in her refusal.
But as madam sat there, a doubt slowly loomed into her mind, whether
it might not, after all, be the better policy for Ellen Adair to be at
the Hall. The dread that Arthur Bohun might possibly renew his wish to
marry her, in spite of all that had been said and done, occasionally
troubled madam. In fact it had never left her. She could not make a
child again of Arthur and keep him at her apron-string: he was free to
go where he would; no matter in what spot of the habitable globe Ellen
might be located, no earthly power could prevent his going to her if
he wished to do so. Why then, surely it was better that the girl
should be under her own eye, and in her own immediate presence. Madam
laughed a little as she rose from her musings; she could have found it
in her heart to thank Richard North for bringing this about.
And so, with the morning, madam was quite prepared to be gracious to
Ellen Adair. Madam was one of those accommodating people who are
ready, as we are told, to hold a candle to a certain nameless
personage, if they think their interest may be served by doing it.
Matilda North, who knew nothing whatever of madam's special reasons
for disliking Miss Adair--saving that she had heard her mother once
scornfully speak of her as a nameless young woman, a nobody--was
coldly civil to her on Richard's introduction. But the sweet face, the
gentle voice, the refined bearing, won even on her; and when the
morning came Matilda felt rather glad that the monotony of the Hall
was to be relieved by such an inmate, and asked her all about the
death of Mrs. Cumberland.
And thus Ellen Adair became an inmate of Dallory Hall. But Mrs. North
had not bargained for a cruel perplexity that was to fall upon her ere
the day was over: no less than the return of Captain Bohun.
It has been mentioned that Sir Nash was ailing. In madam's new scheme,
undefined though it was at present--that of possibly taking up her
residence in his house--she had judged it well to inaugurate it by
trying to ingratiate herself into his favour so far as she knew how.
She would have liked to make herself necessary to him. Madam had heard
a whisper of his going over to certain springs in Germany, and as she
knew she should never get taken with him there, though Arthur might,
she schemed a little to keep him in England. During the concluding
days of her stay, Sir Nash had been overwhelmed with persuasions that
he should come down to Dallory Hall, and get up his health there. To
hear madam, never had so salubrious a spot been discovered on earth as
Dallory; its water was pure, its air a tonic in itself; for rural
quiet, for simple delight, it possessed attractions never before
realized saving in Arcadia. Sir Nash, in answer to all this, had not
given the least hope of trying its virtues; and madam had finally
departed believing that Dallory would never see him.
But on the morning after Ellen Adair's arrival, madam, amongst other
letters, received one addressed in her son Arthur's handwriting.
According to her frequent habit of late--though why she had fallen
into it she could not have told--she let her letters lie, unheeded,
until very late in the morning. Just before luncheon she opened them;
Arthur's the last: she never cared to hear from _him_. And then madam
opened her eyes as well as her letter. She read, that Sir Nash had
come to a sudden resolution to accept her hospitality for a short
time, and that he and Arthur would be with her that day. At this very
moment of reading, they were absolutely on their road to Dallory Hall.
Madam sat staring. Could she prevent it, was her first thought. It was
very undesirable that they should come. Ellen Adair was there; and
besides, after this new and startling revelation of Richard's, madam
was not quite sure that she might continue to crowd the house with
guests. But there was no help for it; ransack her fertile brain as she
would, there seemed no possible chance of preventing the travellers'
arrival. Had she known where a message would reach them, she might
have telegraphed that the Hall was on fire, or that fever had broken
out in it.
Mrs. North was not the first who has had to make the best of an
unlucky combination of circumstances. She gave orders to her servants
to prepare for the reception of the guests: and descended to the
luncheon-table with a smooth face, saying not a word. Richard was out,
or she might have told him: he was so busy over the reopening of
those works of his, that he was now only at home night and morning. It
happened, however that on this day he had occasion to come home for
some deed that lay in his desk.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon--a showery one--and Richard
North was quickly approaching the gates of the Hall, when he saw some
one approaching them more leisurely from the other side. It was Mary
Dallory. He did not know she had returned; and his face had certainly
a flush of surprise on it, as he lifted his hat to her.
"I arrived home yesterday evening," she said, smilingly. "Forced into
it. Dear old Frank wrote the most woebegone letters imaginable,
saying he could not get on without me."
"Did you come from Sir Nash Bohun's?" asked Richard.
"Sir Nash Bohun's! No. What put that into your head? I was at Sir Nash
Bohun's for a few days some ages ago--weeks, at any rate, as it seems
to me--but not lately. I have been with my aunt in South Audley
Street."
"London must be lively at this time," remarked Richard rather
sarcastically; as if, like Francis Dallory, he resented her having
stayed there.
"Very. It _is_, for the tourists and people have all come back to it.
I suppose you would have liked me to remain here and catch the fever.
Very kind of you! I was going in to see your father."
He glanced at her with a half smile, and held out his arm after
passing the gates.
"I am not sure that I shall take it. You have been quite rude, Mr.
Richard."
Richard dropped it at once, begging her pardon. His air was that of a
man who has received a disagreeable check. But Miss Dallory had only
been joking; she glanced up at him, and a hot flush of vexation
overspread her face. Richard held it out once more, and they began
talking as they went along. Rain was beginning to fall, and he put up
his umbrella.
He told her of Mrs. Cumberland's death. She had not heard of it, and
expressed her sorrow. But she had had no acquaintance with Mrs.
Cumberland, could not remember to have seen her more than once, and
that was more than three years ago: and the subject passed.
"I hear you have begun business again," she said.
"Well--I might answer you as Green, my old timekeeper, answered me
to-day. I happened to say to him, 'We have begun once more, Green.'
'Yes, in a sort of way, sir,' said he, gruffly. I have begun 'in a
sort of way,' Miss Dallory."
"And what 'sort of way,' is it?"
"In as cautious and quiet a way as it is well possible for a poor man
to begin," answered Richard. "I have no capital, as you must be aware;
or at least, as good as none."
"I dare say you could get enough of that if you wanted it. Some of
your friends have plenty of it, Mr. Richard."
"I know that. Mrs. Gass quarrels with me every day, because I will not
take hers, and run the risk of making ducks and drakes of it. No. I
prefer to feel my way; to stand or fall alone, Miss Dallory."
"I have heard Richard North called obstinate," remarked the young
lady, looking into the air.
"When he believes he is in the right. I don't think it is a bad
quality, Miss Dallory. My dear sister Bessy used to say----"
"Oh! Richard--what of Bessy?" interrupted Miss Dallory, all ceremony
thrown to the winds. "I never was so painfully shocked in my life as
when I opened Frank's letter telling me she was dead. What _could_
have killed her?"
"It was the fever, you know," answered Richard, sadly. "I shall never
forget what _I_ felt when I heard it. I was in Belgium."
"It seemed very strange that she should die so quickly."
"It seems strange to me still. I have not cared to talk about her
since: she was my only sister and very dear to me. Rane says it was a
most violent attack: and I suppose she succumbed to it quickly,
without much struggle."
"That poor little Cissy Ketler is gone, too."
"Yes."
"Is Ketler one of the few men who have gone back to work?"
"Oh dear, no!"
The rain had ceased: but they were walking on, unconsciously, under
the umbrella. By-and-by the fact was discovered, and the umbrella put
down.
"Who's this?" exclaimed Richard. "Visitors for madam, I suppose."
Richard alluded to the sound of carriage-wheels behind. He and Miss
Dallory had certainly not walked as though they were winning a wager,
but they were close to the house now; and reached its door as the
carriage drew up. Richard stood in very amazement, when he saw its
inmates--Arthur, thin and sallow: and Sir Nash Bohun.
There was a hasty greeting, a welcome, and then they all entered
together. Madam, Matilda, and Miss Adair were in the drawing-room.
Arthur came in side by side with Miss Dallory; they were talking
together, and a slight flush illumined his thin face. Ellen, feeling
shy amongst them all, remained in the background: she would not press
forward: but a general change of position brought her and Arthur close
to each other; and she held out her hand timidly, with a rosy blush.
He turned white as death. He staggered back as though he had seen a
spectre. Just for a minute he was utterly unnerved; and then, some
sort of presence of mind returning to him, he looked another way
without further notice, and began talking again to Miss Dallory. But
Miss Dallory had no longer leisure to waste on him. _She_ had caught
sight of Ellen, whom she had never seen, and was wonderfully struck by
her. Never in her whole life had she found a face so unutterably
lovely.
"Mr. Richard"--touching his arm, as he stood by Arthur Bohun--"who is
that young lady?"
"Ellen Adair."
"Is _that_ Ellen Adair? What a sweet face! I never saw one so lovely.
Do take me to her, Richard."
Richard introduced them. Arthur Bohun, his bosom beating with shame
and pain, turned to the window: a faintness was stealing over him; he
was very weak still. How he loved her!--how he loved her! More; ay,
ten times more, as it seemed to him, than of yore. And yet, he must
only treat her with coldness; worse than if she and he were strangers.
What untoward mystery could have brought her to Dallory Hall? He stole
away, on the plea of looking for Mr. North. Madam, who had all her
eyes about her and had been using them, followed him out.
There was a hasty colloquy. He asked why Miss Adair was there. Madam
replied by telling (for once in her life) the simple truth. She
favoured him with a short history of the previous night's events that
had culminated in Richard's assertion of will. The girl was there, as
he saw, concluded madam, and she could not help it.
"Did Mrs. Cumberland before she died reveal to Miss Adair what you
told me about--about her father?" inquired Arthur, from between his
dry and feverish lips.
"I have no means of knowing. I should think _not_, for the girl
betrays no consciousness of it in her manner. Listen, Arthur," added
madam, impressively laying her hand on his arm. "It is unfortunate
that you are subjected to being in the same house with her; but I
cannot, you perceive, send her away. All you have to do is to avoid
her; never allow yourself to enter into conversation with her; never
for a moment remain alone with her. You will be safe then."
"Yes, it will be the only plan," he mechanically answered, as he
quitted madam, and went on his way.
Meanwhile Ellen Adair little thought what cruelty was in store for
her. Shocked though she had been in the first moment by Arthur Bohun's
apparent want of recognition, it was so improbable a rudeness from
_him_, even to a stranger, that she soon decided he had purposely not
greeted her until they should be alone, or else had really not
recognized her.
In crossing the Hall an hour later, Ellen met him face to face. He was
coming out of Mr. North's parlour as she was passing it. No one was
about; they were quite alone.
"Arthur," she softly said, smiling at him and putting out her hand.
He went red and white, and hot and cold. He lifted his hat, which he
was wearing, having come in through the glass-doors, and politely
murmured some words that sounded like "I beg your pardon:" but he did
not attempt to touch her offered hand. And then he turned and
traversed the room back to the garden.
It seemed as though she had received her death-blow. There could no
longer be any doubt or misapprehension after this, as to what the
future was to be. And Ellen Adair crept into the empty drawing-room,
and leaned her aching brow against the window frame.
Presently Matilda North entered. The young lady had her curiosity even
as her mother, and fancied some one was in sight.
"What are you looking at, Miss Adair?"
"Nothing," answered Ellen, lifting her head. And in truth she had not
been looking out at all.
"Ah! I see," significantly spoke Miss North.
Walking slowly side by side along a distant path, went Captain Bohun
and Miss Dallory. Matilda, acting on a hint from madam, would not lose
the opportunity.
"Captain Bohun is losing no time, is he?"
"In what way?" inquired Ellen.
"Don't you know that they are engaged? He is to marry Miss Dallory. We
had all kinds of love passages, I assure you, when he was ill at my
uncle's, and she was there helping me to nurse him."
It was a wicked and gratuitous lie: there had been no "love passages"
or any semblance of them. But Ellen believed it.
"Do you say they are engaged?" she murmured.
"Of course they are. It will be a love match too, for he is very fond
of her--and she of him. I think Richard was once a little bit touched
in that quarter; but Arthur has won. Sir Nash is very pleased at
Arthur's choice; and mamma is delighted. They are both very fond of
Mary Dallory."
And that ceremony, all but completed, only a few weeks ago in the
church at Eastsea!--and the ring and licence she held still!--and
the deep, deep love they had owned to each other, and vowed to keep
for ever--what did it all mean? Ellen Adair asked the question of
herself in her agony. And as her heart returned the common-sense
answer--fickleness: faithlessness--she felt as if a great sea were
sweeping away hope and peace and happiness. The iron had entered into
her soul.