TANGLED THREADS.
It was a curious position, that of some of the present inmates of
Dallory Hall. Sir Nash Bohun, who went down to accompany Arthur more
than anything else, and who had not intended to remain above a day or
two, stayed on. The quiet life after the bustle of London was grateful
to him; the sweet country air really seemed to possess some of the
properties madam had ascribed to it. Sir Nash was to go abroad when
the genial springtime should set in, and try the effect of some
medicinal waters. Until then, he was grateful for any change, any
society that served to pass away the time.
Sir Nash had been as much struck with the wonderful beauty of Ellen
Adair as strangers generally were. That she was one of those unusually
sweet girls, made specially to be loved, he could not fail to see. In
the moment of their first arrival, he had not noticed her: there were
so many besides her to be greeted; and the appearance of Miss Dallory
amongst them was a most unexpected surprise. Not until they were
assembling for dinner, did Sir Nash observe her. His eyes suddenly
rested on a most beautiful girl in a simple black silk evening dress,
its low body and sleeves edged with white tulle, and a black necklace
on her pretty neck. He was wondering who she could be, when he heard
Richard North speak of her as Ellen Adair. Sir Nash drew Arthur Bohun
to the far end of the drawing-room, ostensibly to look at a rare
Turner hanging on the walls.
"Arthur, who _is_ she? It cannot be Adair's daughter?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Mercy be good to her!" cried Sir Nash in dismay. "What a calamity!
She looks absolutely charming; fitted to mate with a prince of the
blood-royal."
"And she is so."
"To have been born to an inheritance of shame!" continued Sir Nash.
"Poor thing! Does she know about it?"
"No, I am sure she does not," replied Arthur warmly, his tone one of
intense pain. "She believes her father to be as honourable and good as
you are yourself, sir."
For the very fact of Ellen's having put out her hand to him in the
hall with that bright and confiding smile, had convinced Arthur Bohun
that at present she knew nothing.
It made his own position all the worse: for, to her, his behaviour
must appear simply infamous. Yet, how tell her? Here they were, living
in the same house; and yet they could only be to each other as
strangers. An explanation was due to Ellen Adair; but from the very
nature of the subject, he could not give it. If he had possessed the
slightest idea that she was attributing his behaviour to a wrong
cause--an engagement with Miss Dallory--he would at least have set
that right. But who was likely to tell him? No one. Madam and Matilda,
be very sure, would not do so: still less would Ellen herself. And so
the complication would, and must, go on; just as unhappy complications
do sometimes go on. But there is this much to be said--that to have
set straight the only point on which they were at cross purposes would
not have healed the true breach by which the two were hopelessly
separated.
And Sir Nash Bohun never once entered into any sort of intercourse
with Ellen Adair. He would not, had he known it beforehand, have
taken up his sojourn under the same roof with one whose father had
played so fatal a part with his long-deceased brother: but
circumstances had brought it about. In herself the young lady was so
unobjectionable--nay, so deserving of respect and homage--that Sir
Nash was won out of his intended coldness; and he would smile
pleasantly upon her when paying her the slight, unavoidable courtesies
of everyday life. But he never lingered near her, never entered into
prolonged conversation: a bow or two, a good-morning and goodnight,
comprised their acquaintanceship. He grew to pity her; almost to love
her; and he relieved his feelings at least once a day in private by
sending sundry unorthodox epithets after the man, William Adair, for
blighting the name held by this fair and sweet young lady.
It was not a very sociable party, taken on the whole. Sir Nash had a
sitting-room assigned him, and remained much in it: his grief for his
son was not over, and perhaps never would be. Mr. North was often shut
up in his parlour, or walking with bent head about the garden paths.
Madam kept very much aloof, no one knew where; Matilda was buried in
her French and English novels, or chattering above to madam's French
maid. Richard was at the works all day. Ellen Adair, feeling herself a
sort of interloper, kept her chamber, or went to remote parts of the
garden and sat there in solitude. As to Arthur Bohun, he was still an
invalid, weak and ill, and would often not be seen until luncheon or
dinner-time. There was a general meeting at meals, and a sociable
evening closed the day.
Madam had not allowed matters to take their course without a word from
herself. On the day after Sir Nash and Arthur arrived, she came, all
smiles and suavity, knocking at Ellen's chamber-door. She found that
young lady weeping bitter tears--who stammered out, as she strove for
composure, some excuse about feeling so greatly the sudden death of
Mrs. Cumberland. Madam was gracious and considerate; as she could be
when it pleased her: she poured some scent on her own white
handkerchief, and passed it over Miss Adair's forehead. Ellen thanked
her and smoothed her hair back, and dried her tears, and rose up out
of the emotion as a thing of the past.
"I am sorry it should have happened that Sir Nash chose this time for
his visit," spoke madam; "you might just now have preferred to be
alone with us. Captain Bohun is still so very unwell that Sir Nash
says he could but bring him."
"Yes," mechanically replied Ellen, really not knowing what she was
assenting to.
"And Arthur--of course he was anxious to come; he knew Miss Dallory
would be at home again," went on madam, with candour, like a woman
without guile. "We are all delighted at the prospect of his marrying
her. Before he was heir to the baronetcy, of course it did not so much
matter how he married, provided it was a gentlewoman of family equal
to the Bohuns. But now that he has come into the succession through
poor James's death, things have changed. Did you know that Sir Nash
has cut off the entail?" abruptly broke off madam.
Ellen thought she did. The fact was, Arthur had told Mrs. Cumberland
of it at Eastsea: but Ellen did not understand much about entails, so
the matter had passed from her mind.
"Cutting off the entail has placed Arthur quite in his uncle's hands,"
continued madam. "If Arthur were to offend him, Sir Nash might not
leave him a farthing. It is fortunate for us all that Mary is so
charming: Sir Nash is almost as fond of her as is Arthur. And she is a
great heiress, you know: she must have at the very least three or four
thousand a-year. Some people say it is more; the minority of the
Dallory children was a long one."
"It is a great deal," murmured Ellen.
"Yes. But it will be very acceptable. I'm sure, by the way affairs
seem to be going on with Mr. North and Richard, it seems as though
Arthur would have us all on his hands. It has been a _great_ happiness
to us, his choosing Miss Dallory. I don't believe he thought much of
her before his illness. She was staying with us in town during that
time, and so--so the love came, and Arthur made up his mind. He had
the sense to see the responsibility that James Bohun's death has
thrown upon him, the necessity for making a suitable choice in a
wife."
Ellen had learnt a lesson lately in self-control, and maintained her
calmness. She did not know madam--except by reputation--quite as well
as some people did, and believed she spoke in all sincerity. One thing
she could not decide--whether madam had known of the projected
marriage at Eastsea. She felt inclined to fancy that she had not done
so, and Ellen hoped it with her whole heart. Madam lingered yet to say
a few more words. She drew an affecting picture of the consolation
this projected union brought her; and--as if she were addressing an
imaginary audience--turned up her eyes and clasped her hands, and
declared she must put it to the honour and good feeling of the world
in general not to attempt anything by word or deed that might tend to
mar this happy state of things. With that she kissed Ellen Adair, and
said, now that she had apologized for their not being quite alone at
the Hall and had explained how it happened that Sir Nash had come, she
would leave her to dress.
The days went on, and Mary Dallory came on a visit to the Hall. Her
brother Frances left home to join a shooting party, and madam seized
the occasion to invite his sister. She came, apparently nothing loth;
and with her a great trunkful of paraphernalia. Matilda North had once
said, when calling Mary Dallory a flirt, that she would come fast
enough to the Hall when Richard and Arthur were there. At any rate,
she came now. After this, Arthur Bohun would be more downstairs than
he was before; and he and she would be often together in the grounds;
sitting on benches under the evergreens or strolling about the walks
side by side. Sometimes Arthur would take her arm with an invalid's
privilege; his limp at the present time more perceptible than it ever
had been; and sometimes she would take his. Ellen Adair would watch
them through the windows, and press her trembling fingers on her
aching heart. She saw it all: or thought she did. Arthur Bohun had
found that his future prospects in life depended very much upon his
wedding Miss Dallory, or some equally eligible young lady; and so he
had resolved to forget the sweet romance of the past, and accept
reality.
She thought he might have spoken to her. So much was certainly due to
her, who had all but been made his wife. His present treatment of her
was simply despicable; almost wicked. Better that he had explained
only as madam had done: what was there to prevent his telling her the
truth? He might have said, ever so briefly: "Such and such things have
arisen, and my former plans are frustrated, and I cannot help myself."
But no; all he did was to avoid her: he never attempted to touch her
hand; his eyes never met hers if he could help it. It was as though he
had grown to despise her, and sought to show it. Had he done so? When
Ellen's fears suggested the question--and it was in her mind pretty
often now--she would turn sick with despair, and wish to die.
The truth was really this. Arthur Bohun, fearing he should betray his
still ardent love, was more studiously cold to Ellen than he need have
been. A strange yearning would come over him to clasp her to his heart
and sob out his grief and tenderness: and the very fear lest he might
really do this some day, lest passion and nature should become too
strong for prudence, made him shun her and seem to behave, as Ellen
felt and thought, despicably. He knew this himself; and he called
himself far harder names than Ellen could have called him: a coward, a
knave, a miserably-dishonoured man. And so, in this way things went on
at Dallory Hall: and were likely to continue.
One afternoon, a few days after Mrs. Cumberland had been interred,
Ellen went to see her grave. Madam, Miss Dallory, Matilda, and Sir
Nash had gone out driving: Arthur had been away somewhere since the
morning, Mr. North was busy at the celery-bed with his head gardener.
There was only Ellen: she was alone and lonely, and she put her things
on and walked through Dallory to the churchyard. She happened to meet
three or four people she knew, and stayed to talk to them. Mrs. Gass
was one; the widow of Henry Hepburn was another. But she made way at
last, feeling a little shy at being out alone. When walking as far as
Dallory Mrs. Cumberland had always caused a servant to attend her.
The grave was not far from Bessy Rane's. Ellen had no difficulty in
distinguishing the one from the other, though as yet there was no
stone to mark either. Mrs. Cumberland's was near that of the late
Thomas Gass; Bessy's was close to Edmund North's. A large winter tree,
an evergreen, overshadowed this corner of the churchyard, and she sat
down on the bench that encircled the trunk. Bessy's grave was only a
very few yards away.
She leaned her face on her hand, and was still. The past, the present,
the future; Mrs. Cumberland, Bessy Rane, Edmund North; her own bitter
trouble, and other things--all seemed to be crowding together
tumultuously in her brain. But, as she sat on, the tumult cleared a
little, and she lost herself in imaginative thoughts of that heaven
where pain and care shall be no more. Could they see her? Could Mrs.
Cumberland look down and see her, Ellen Adair, sitting there in her
sorrow? A fanciful idea came to her that perhaps the dead were the
guardian angels appointed to watch the living: to be "in charge over
them, to keep them in all their ways." If so, who then was watching
_her?_--It must be her own mother, Mary Adair. Could these guardian
angels pray for them?--intercede with the mighty God and the Saviour
that their sins here might be blotted out? How long Ellen was lost in
these thoughts she never knew: but she wound up by crying quietly to
herself, and she wondered how long it would be before she joined them
all in heaven.
Some one, approaching from behind the tree, came round with a slow
step and sat down on the bench. It was a gentleman in mourning; she
could see so much, though he was almost on the other side of the tree,
and had his back to her. Ellen found she had not been observed, and
prepared to leave. Twilight had fallen on the dull evening. As she
stooped to pick up her handkerchief, which had fallen, the intruder
turned and saw her. Saw as well the tears on her face. It was Captain
Bohun. He got up more quickly than he had sat down, intending no doubt
to move away. But in his haste he dropped the stick that he had used
for support in walking since his illness--and it fell close to Ellen's
feet. She stooped in some confusion to pick it up, and so did he.
"Thank you--I beg your pardon," he said, with an air of humiliation so
great that it might have wrung a tender heart to witness. And then he
felt that he could not for very shame go off without some notice, as
he had been attempting to do. Though why he stayed to speak and what
he said, it might have puzzled him at the moment to tell. Instinct,
more than reason, prompted the words.
"She was taken off very suddenly."
Though standing close to Bessy's grave, Ellen thought he looked across
at Mrs. Cumberland's. And the latter had been last in her thoughts.
"Yes. I feared we should not get her home in time. And I feel sure
that the journey was fatal to her. If she had remained quiet, she
would not have died quite so soon."
"It was of Bessy I spoke."
"Oh--I thought you alluded to Mrs. Cumberland. Mrs. Cumberland's death
has made so much difference to me, that I suppose my mind is much
occupied with thoughts of her. This is the first time I have been
here."
Both were agitated to pain: both could fain have pressed their hearts
tightly to still the frightful beating there.
"Ellen, I should like to say a word to you," he suddenly exclaimed,
turning his face to her for a moment, and then turning it away again.
"I am aware that nothing can excuse the deep shame of my conduct in
not having attempted any explanation before. To you I cannot attempt
it. I should have given it to Mrs. Cumberland if she had not died."
Ellen made no answer. Her eyes were bent on the ground.
"The subject was so intensely painful and--and awkward--that at first
I did not think I could have mentioned it even to Mrs. Cumberland.
Then came my illness. After that, whilst I lay day after day, left to
my own reflections, things began to present themselves in rather a
different light; and I saw that to maintain silence would be the most
wretched shame of all. I resolved to disclose everything to Mrs.
Cumberland, and leave her to repeat it to you if she thought it well
to do so--as much of it, at least, as would give you some clue to my
strange and apparently unjustifiable conduct."
Ellen's eyes were still lowered, but her hands trembled with the
violence of her emotion. She did not speak.
"Mrs. Cumberland's death, I say, prevented this," continued Captain
Bohun, who had gathered a little courage now that the matter was
opened: "and I have felt since in a frightful dilemma, from which I
see no escape. To you I cannot enter on any explanation: nor yet am I
able to tell you why I cannot. The subject is altogether so very
painful----"
Ellen lifted her head suddenly. Every drop of blood had deserted her
face, leaving it of an ashen whiteness. The movement caused him to
pause.
"I know what it is," she managed to say from between her white and
trembling lips.
"You--know it?"
"Yes. All."
Alas for the misapprehensions of this world. _He_ was thinking only of
the strange disclosure made to him concerning Mr. Adair; _she_ only of
his engagement to Miss Dallory. At her avowal a multitude of thoughts
came surging through his brain. All! She knew _all!_
"Have you known it long?" he questioned in low tones.
"The time may be counted by days."
He jumped to the conclusion that Mrs. Cumberland had disclosed it to
her on her death-bed. And Ellen's knowledge of it improved his
position just a little. But, looking at her, at her pale sweet face
and downcast eyes, at the anguish betrayed in every line of her
countenance, and which she could not conceal, Arthur Bohun's heart was
filled to overflowing with a strange pity, that seemed almost to reach
the point of breaking. He drew nearer to her.
"Thank God that you understand, Ellen--that at least you do not think
me the shameless scoundrel I must otherwise have appeared," he
whispered, his voice trembling with its deep emotion. "I cannot help
myself: you must see that I cannot, as you know all. The blow nearly
killed me. My fate--our fate, if I may dare still so far to couple
your name with mine--is a very bitter one."
Ellen had begun to shiver. Something in his words grated terribly on
her ear: and pride enabled her to keep down outward emotion.
"You left the ring and licence with me," she abruptly said, in perhaps
a sudden bitterness of temper. "What am I to do with them?"
"Burn them--destroy them," he fiercely replied. "They are worthless to
us now."
But he so spoke only in his anguish. Ellen interpreted it differently.
"God help us both, Ellen! A cruel fate has parted us for this world:
but we may be permitted to be together in the next. It is all my hope
now. Heaven bless you, Ellen! Our paths in life must lie apart, but I
pray always that yours may be a happy one."
Without further word, without touching her hand, thus he left her.
Limping on to the broad path, and then down it towards the churchyard
gate.
There are moments into which a whole lifetime of agony seems to be
compressed. Such a moment was this for Ellen Adair. Darkness was
coming on rapidly now, but she sat on, her head bent low on her hands.
They were, then, separated for ever; there was no further hope for
her!--he himself had confirmed it. She wondered whether the pain would
kill her; whether she should be able to battle with it, or must die of
the humiliation it brought. The pain and the humiliation were strong
and sharp now--now as she sat there. By-and-by there stole again into
her mind those thoughts which Captain Bohun's appearance had
interrupted--the heavenly place of rest to which Bessy and Mrs.
Cumberland had passed. Insensibly it soothed her: and imagination went
roving away unchecked. She seemed to see the white robes of the
Redeemed; she saw the golden harps in their hands, the soft sweet
light around them, the love and peace. The thoughts served to show her
how poor and worthless, as compared with the joys of that Better Land,
were the trials and pains of this world: how short a moment, even at
the longest, they had to be endured: how quickly and surely all here
must pass away! Yes, she might endure with patience for the time! And
when she lifted her head, it was to break into a flood of violent yet
soothing tears, that she could not have shed before.
"Father in heaven, Thou seest all my trouble and my agony. I have no
one in the world to turn to for shelter--and the blast is strong.
Vouchsafe to guide and cover me!"
But night was falling, and she rose to make her way out of the
churchyard. In a sheltered nook that she passed, sat a man: and Ellen
started a little, and quickened her pace. It was Captain Bohun.
Instead of going away, he had turned back to wait. She understood it
at once: at that hour he would not leave her alone. He wished to be
chivalrous to her still, for all his utter faithlessness. In the very
teeth of his avowed desertion, his words and manner had proved that he
loved her yet. Loved _her_, and not another. It brought its own comfort
to Ellen Adair. Of course it ought not to have done so, but it did:
for the human heart at best is frail and faulty.
Captain Bohun followed her out of the churchyard, and kept her in
sight all the way home, every feeling he possessed aching for her. He
had seen the signs and traces of her weeping; he knew what must be the
amount of her anguish. He might have been ready to shoot himself could
it have restored her to peace; he felt that he should very much like
to shoot Mr. Adair, whose bad deeds had entailed this misery upon
them.
At the Hall gates he was overtaken by Richard, striding home hastily
to dinner. Richard, passing his arm through Arthur's, began telling
him that he feared he was going to have some trouble with his
ex-workmen.
And as they, the once fond lovers, sat together afterwards at table,
and in the lighted drawing-room, Arthur as far from her as he could
place himself, none present suspected the scene that had taken place
in the churchyard. Ellen Adair's eyes looked heavy; but that was
nothing unusual now. It was known that she grieved much for Mrs.
Cumberland.