IN THE SHRUBBERY.
Wintry weather set in again. The past few days had been intensely cold
and bleak. Ellen Adair sat in one of her favourite outdoor seats.
Sheltered from the wind by artificial rocks and clustering evergreens,
and well wrapped-up besides, she did not seem to feel the frost.
Her later days had been one long trial. Compelled constantly to meet
Arthur Bohun, yet shunned by him as far as it was possible without
attracting the observation of others, there were times when she felt
as though her position at the Hall were killing her. Something, in
fact, _was_ killing her. Her state of mind was a mixture of despair,
shame, and self-reproach. Captain Bohun's conduct brought her the
bitterest humiliation. Looking back on the past, she thought he
despised her for her ready acquiescence in his wish for a private
marriage: and the repentance, the humiliation it entailed on her was
of all things the hardest to bear. She almost felt that she could die
of the memory--just as other poor creatures, whose sin has been
different, have died of their shame. The thought embittered her peace
by night and by day: it was doing her more harm than all the rest. To
one so sensitively organized as Ellen Adair, reared in all the graces
of refined feeling, this enforced sojourn at Dallory Hall could indeed
be nothing less than a fiery ordeal, from which there might be no
escape to former health and strength.
Very still she sat to-day, nursing her pain. Her face was wan, her
breathing laboured: that past cold she had caught seemed to hang about
her strangely. No further news had been received from Mr. Adair, and
Ellen supposed he was on his way home. After to-day her position would
not be quite so trying, for Arthur Bohun was quitting Dallory. Sir
Nash had decided that he was strong enough now to travel, and they
were to depart together at two o'clock. It was past twelve now. And
so--the sunshine of Ellen Adair's life had gone out. Never, as she
believed, would a gleam come into it again.
In spite of the commotion beyond the walls of the Hall now increasing
daily and hourly to a climax, in spite of madam's unceasing exertions
to urge it on, and to crush Oliver Rane, no word of the dreadful
accusation had as yet transpired within to its chief inmates. Mr.
North, his daughter Matilda, Ellen Adair, Sir Nash Bohun, and Arthur;
all were alike in ignorance. The servants of course knew of it, going
out to Dallory, as they often did: but madam had issued her sharp
orders that they should keep silence; and Richard had begged them not
to speak of it for their master's sake. As to Sir Nash and Arthur
Bohun, Richard was only too glad that they should depart without
hearing the scandal.
He himself was doing all he could to stop proceedings and allay
excitement. Since the night of his interviews with Jelly, Mr. Seeley,
and Dr. Rane, Richard had devoted his best energies to the work of
suppression. He did not venture to see any official person, the
coroner excepted, or impress his views on the magistrates; but he went
about amongst the populace, and poured oil on the troubled waters.
"For my father's sake, do not press this on," he said to them; "let my
sister's grave rest in peace."
He said the same in effect to the coroner; begging of him, if
possible, to hush it up; and he implied to all, though not absolutely
asserting it, that Dr. Rane could not be guilty. So that Ellen Adair,
sitting there, had not the knowledge of this to give her additional
trouble.
A little blue flower suddenly caught her eye, peeping from a mossy
nook at the foot of the rocks. She rose, and stooped. It was a winter
violet. Plucking it, she sat down again, and fell into thought.
For it had brought vividly before her memory that long-past day when
she had played with her violets in the garden at Mrs. Cumberland's.
"Est-ce qu'il m'aime? Oui. Non. Un peu. Beaucoup. Pas du tout.
Passionnément. _Il m'aime passionnément_." False augurs, those flowers
had been! Deceitful blossoms which had combined to mock and sting her.
The contrast between that time and this brought to Ellen Adair a whole
flood-tide of misery. And those foolish violets were hidden away
still! Should she take this indoors and add it to them?
By-and-by she began to walk towards the house. Turning a corner
presently she came suddenly upon three excited people: Captain Bohun,
Miss Dallory, and Matilda North. The two former had met accidentally
in the walk. Miss Dallory's morning errand at the Hall was to say
goodbye to Sir Nash; and before she and Captain Bohun had well
exchanged greetings, Matilda bore down upon them in a state of
agitation, calling wildly to Arthur to stay and hear the tidings _she_
had just heard.
The tidings were those that had been so marvellously kept from her and
from others at the Hall--the accusation against Dr. Rane. Matilda
North had just learnt them accidentally, and in her horror and
surprise she hurried to her half-brother, Arthur, to repeat the story.
Ellen Adair found her talking in wild excitement. Arthur turned pale
as he listened; to Mary Dallory the rumour was not new.
But Arthur Bohun and Matilda North were strong enough to bear the
shock. Ellen Adair was not so. As she drank in the meaning of the
dreadful words--that Bessy had been murdered--a deadly sickness seized
upon her heart; and she had only time to sit down on a garden-bench
before she fainted away.
"You should not have told it so abruptly, Matilda," cried Arthur,
almost passionately. "It has made even me feel ill. Get some water:
you'll go quicker than I should."
Alarmed at Ellen's state, and eager to be of service, both Matilda and
Miss Dallory ran in search of the water. Arthur Bohun sat down on the
bench to support her.
Her head lay on his breast, as he placed it. She was without
consciousness. His arm encircled her waist; he took one of her
lifeless hands between his. Thus he sat, gazing down at the pale, thin
face so near to his; the face which he had helped to rob of its bloom.
Yet he loved her still! loved her better than he did all the rest of
the world put together! Holding her to his beating heart, he knew it.
He knew that he only loved her the more truly for their estrangement.
His pulses were thrilling with the rapture this momentary contact
brought him. If he might but embrace her, as of old! An irrepressible
yearning to press her lips to his, came into his heart. He slightly
lifted the pale sweet face, and bent down his own.
"Oh, my darling! My lost darling!"
Lips, cheeks, brow were kissed again and again, with impassioned
tenderness. It was so long since he had touched them! A sigh escaped
him; and he knew not whether it contained most of bliss or of agony.
This treatment was more effective than the water could have been.
Ellen drew a deep breath, and stirred uneasily. As soon as she began
really to revive, he managed to get his coat off and fold it across
the head and arm of the bench. When Ellen awoke to consciousness, she
had her head leaning on it; and Captain Bohun stood at a very
respectful distance from her. Never a suspicion crossed her mind of
what he had been doing.
"You are better," he said. "I am glad!"
The words, the voice, aroused her fully. She lifted her head and
opened her eyes and gazed around her in bewilderment. Then what
Matilda had said came back with a rush.
"Is it true?" she exclaimed, looking piteously at him. "It never can
be true!"
"I don't know," he answered. "If false, it is almost as dreadful to us
who hear it. Poor Bessy! I loved her as a sister."
Ellen, exhausted by the fainting-fit, her nerves unstrung by the news,
burst into tears. Matilda and Miss Dallory came hastening up with
water, wine, and smelling-salts. But she soon recovered her
equanimity, so far as outward calmness went, without the aid of
remedies, which she declined. Rising from the bench, she turned
towards the house, her steps a little uncertain.
"Pray give your arm to Miss Adair, Captain Bohun," spoke Mary Dallory
in sharp, quick tones, surprised perhaps that he did not do so. And
upon that, Captain Bohun went to Ellen's side, and held it out.
"Thank you," she answered, and refused it with a slight movement of
the head.
They walked on at first all together, as it were. But Matilda and Miss
Dallory were soon far ahead, the former talking excitedly about Bessy
Rane and the terrible accusation regarding her. Ellen's steps were
slower; she could not help it; and Captain Bohun kept by her side.
"May I wish you goodbye here, Ellen?" he suddenly asked, stopping
towards the end of the shrubbery, through which they had been passing.
"Goodbye," she faintly answered.
He took her hand. That is, he held out his own, and Ellen almost
mechanically put hers into it. To have made a scene by refusing, would
have wounded her pride more than all. He kept it within his own,
clasping his other hand upon it. For a moment his eyes met hers.
"It may be, that we shall never again cross each other's path in life,
Ellen. God bless you, my love, and keep you always! I wish to Heaven,
for both our sakes, that we had never met!"
"Goodbye," she coldly repeated as he dropped her hand. And they
walked on in silence and gained the lawn, where the two in advance had
turned to wait for them.
But this was destined to be an eventful day: to others, at least, if
not to them. At the appointed time, Sir Nash Bohun and Arthur took
their departure; Richard North, who had paid the baronet the attention
of coming home to luncheon--for there was no longer any concealment
now as to the true host of Dallory Hall--seeing them into their
carriage.
"You have promised to come and stay with me, Richard," said the
baronet, at the farewell hand-shake.
"Conditionally. When my work allows me leisure," answered Richard,
laughing.
"Can't you go with us to the station, Dick?" put in Arthur.
"Not to-day, I fear. I must hold an immediate interview with madam; it
is important. If you waited for me you might lose the train."
Arthur bent his face--one of pain now--to Dick's, and whispered.
"Is it money-trouble again, Richard?"
"No; not this time."
"If she brings anything of that sort on you in future, refer her to
me. Yes, Richard: I must deal with it now."
Farewells were exchanged, and the carriage drove away. Richard,
stepping backwards, came into contact with Miss Dallory.
"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed. "Have I hurt you? I did not know
you were there."
"Of course you have not hurt me: and I had no business to be there. I
stood to wave to them. Good-afternoon, Mr. Richard."
"Are you going?" he asked.
"I have promised to spend the afternoon and take tea with Mrs. Gass.
Luncheon was my dinner. I saw you looking at me as if you thought my
appetite remarkable."
"Miss Dallory!"
She laughed slightly.
"To confess the truth, I don't think I noticed whether you took
anything or nothing," said Richard. "I have a great deal to trouble me
just now. Good-afternoon."
He would be returning to Dallory himself in perhaps a few minutes, but
he never said to her, "Stay, and I will walk with you." Miss Dallory
thought of it as she went away. It had indeed crossed Richard's mind
to say so: but he arrested the words as they were about to leave his
lips. If she was to be Arthur Bohun's wife, the less Richard saw of
her the better.
Inquiring for madam when he went indoors, he found she was ensconced
in her boudoir. Richard went up, knocked at the door, and opened it.
Madam appeared not to approve of the procedure; she bore down on him
with a swoop, and would have bade him retire.
"What do you want here, Richard North? I am not at liberty. I cannot
admit you."
"Pardon me, madam, I must speak with you for five minutes," he
answered, passing quietly in.
By something he had heard that morning from Dale, Richard had reason
to suppose that Mrs. North was still actively pursuing the charge
against Dr. Rane; was urging in high quarters the necessity for an
investigation. Richard had come to ask her whether this was the case,
and to beg her, once for all, to be still. He sat down uninvited
whilst he put the question.
But madam would acknowledge nothing. In fact, she led him to believe
that it was altogether untrue; that she had not stirred in it at all
since the caution Richard had given her, not to do so, some days ago.
It was simply impossible to know whether what she said might be
depended on--for she was habitually more false than true. Richard
could only hope she was true on this occasion.
"It would be a terrible exposure," he urged. "Madam, I beg you; I beg
you for all our sakes, to be _still_. You know not what you would do."
She nodded an ungracious acquiescence: and Richard departed for his
works, casually mentioning to Mr. North, as he passed him in the
garden, that he should not return home until night. Like Miss Dallory,
he had intended the midday meal to be his dinner.
"Dick," cried Mr. North, arresting him, "what's the matter with
Matilda? She seems to be in a great commotion over something or
other."
Richard know not what to answer. If his father had to be told, why,
better that he himself should break it to him. There was still a
chance that it might be kept from him.
"Something or other gone wrong, I suppose, sir. Never mind. How well
those new borders look!"
"Don't they, Dick! I'm glad I decided upon them."
And Richard went on to his works.